Luck Will Travel
by arduna
Summary: The life of a soldier at war is not quite what d'Artagnan had imagined. Months into the campaign the Musketeers have yet to face a full-scale battle. But the frontier is fraught with danger all the same, and a lot can happen in one night... Set between Season 2 and 3.
1. Chapter 1: Anthem for the Homesick

_I'm back! and nervous/happy to be posting my second story. It's true what they say: the second one is harder than the first. I've been sitting on this for a while, hoping it will magically improve when I'm not looking at it, but it's my birthday today so I've decided to stop procrastinating and get on with it, by way of marking the day._

 _Like many of you, I wanted to explore the Musketeers' war experiences – those four years were covered in just a few minutes at the start of Season 3, yet they all came back changed men._

 _Confession: I saw the dusty battlefield when Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan faced the Spanish in episode 3.1, and assumed they were fighting somewhere near or in Spain. History is not my strong point! By the time I realised my error later in season 3, this story had already lodged itself in my mental map and although I tried to move the action to the Belgian border it wouldn't budge. So I apologise to everyone who likes their Musketeers stories historically correct but here it is, AU in location but hopefully still plausible._

 _The story and chapter titles all come from the incredible song "Battlescars" by Paradise Fears which I discovered when watching a YouTube compilation uploaded by BraveMusketeer97 (thanks for introducing me to this music!). I listened to it while I was training for a long-distance charity walk and it really helped me keep going when everything was hurting, so it's helped to shape this story. Check it out – the Youtube compilation and the song are both awesome!_

 _The astute amongst you might have spotted the words "Part One" in the title. Yes, it does imply a sequel and I have it in my head, so I hope to wrestle it onto the page in due course. Reviews, encouragement, feedback and suggestions will all help, more than you know!_

* * *

 **Battlescars Part One**

 **LUCK WILL TRAVEL**

 _Warning: this chapter includes the death of an OC equine character. It's implied only, and comes right at the end of this first chapter if you want to avoid it._

 **Chapter 1: Anthem for the homesick**

Run!  
Just keep running. Don't stop, keep going.  
Lungs burning, sides heaving, sweat stinging your eyes. Throat parched, craving water.  
Eyes straining through the darkness, legs trembling with effort.  
Footsore, exhausted, desperate ... but you just keep running through the night.

Your brother needs you.

 _Spanish border, 11 pm_

Fouchard was fed up. They'd been short-handed for weeks after the "redeployment" of half of their men to General Marche's battalion, ten leagues to the north. The remaining 30-odd Musketeers were stuck in a temporary camp awaiting further orders, but that didn't mean they were resting. Far from it. They were tasked with escorting supply missions through the 'no go' zone which was the quickest route to the front. And escorting visiting Very Important Officers to and from the front. And daily reconnaissance missions. Camp maintenance – repairing torn canvas, poles and pegs, securing water supplies, hunting to bolster food stocks, and the constant drudge of finding enough firewood to keep their cooking and water purifying fires going. Running messages for the Captain. Duty in the mess tent and infirmary. All the usual Musketeer work – training, working with the horses, cleaning weapons, repairing kit. Oh, and of course, guard duty.

Which is why he found himself tramping up and down an invisible line on the south west perimeter of their makeshift camp of tents, shelters and stores, trying not to trip over the thorny scrub bushes that dominated the landscape here, and rueing the thin soles of his boots that he'd intended to have repaired before leaving Paris, but had not had time. He and another dozen young recruits had been rushed down here a few weeks ago to bolster the regimental numbers when the General sent for reinforcements, and he'd naively assumed they would be based near a town where he could get them resoled.

A pebble had worked its way through a split in the leather and settled under his big toe. _Zut_! Looking around he spotted a tree stump and headed over, resting his musket against a birch sapling and lowered himself with a grunt of sheer bad humour.

Boot off and stone evicted, he wriggled his toes and peered up at the sky. Faint moonlight backlit the wispy clouds; there would be no rain today. He wasn't sure if that was a blessing or not. Sleeping under canvas in the rain was cold and miserable, as was slogging through inches of sloppy mud as feet, hooves and wheels churned up the soil. In spite of his short time at the front he'd experienced both on the slog through France to get here. But so close to Spain in late spring this land had baked for weeks in high daytime temperatures, and he was fed up with the dust that every step stirred, clogging nostrils and working its way into the skin so no amount of washing left his skin feeling clean; not that there was much water to spare for washing ... _What was that_?

A faint sound reached him from the hill to his left which shielded the river that marking the border between French and Spanish territory. _Merde_! He shot to his feet, forgetting he only had one boot on, reached for his musket, trod on something sharp with his stockinged foot and barely suppressed a yelp of pain. Hopping on one leg he fumbled to prime his musket and scan the horizon at the same time.

There! Against the starlit sky he could see a fast-moving figure cresting the hill and start down the trail towards camp. Quickly he looked around, hoping to see Merjean, his fellow guard, but he was out of sight on the far side of camp. He dare not call him for fear of giving warning to the intruder, who was now skidding and sliding at high speed down the steep trail.

Fouchard raised his musket and picked a spot about thirty paces away where the path turned straight towards him, which should give him a few seconds to aim and get a shot off. Trying to control the his trembling muscles he squinted, waiting for the dark figure to come into his line of fire. Nearly there... nearly...

"Don't shoot!" The words were gasped out in French, followed by an unidentifiable curse as the figure slipped, arms wind-milling to keep his balance.

Fouchard closed one eye and his finger tightened on the trigger. He wasn't about to fall for that one. Lots of Spaniards could speak French, and they'd been warned to challenge anyone who didn't give the current password. Speaking of which... Hastily he cleared his throat and called out in a voice that only quavered a little bit: "Password! Or I shoot!"

"Dammit, I can't remember the bloody password!" the figure called as he skidded to an abrupt halt twenty feet away, looking wildly around to locate the source of the challenge.

Fouchard found himself hesitating. The man's French was _very_ good for a Spaniard. And surely an invader would approach more quietly? "Name?" he growled out, trying to sound menacing and hoping the intruder wasn't holding a pistol in the hand he couldn't see. The man was close enough now to be able to see Fouchard where he stood in the shadow of the skinny saplings.

Sure enough, the man's head snapped around and he turned to face Fouchard directly. "Fouchard, is that you?" He broke into a run again and Fouchard panicked, calling out "Stop or I'll shoot!"

"It's me, you idiot – d'Artagnan! Where's the Captain?"

He ran straight up to Fouchard, pushed the musket barrel gently to one side and peered at Fouchard. "Fouchard? The Captain?" he prompted.

Adrenaline drained out of the young Musketeer's limbs and his musket drooped as he let out a sigh of relief. He didn't like to think how close he'd just come to shooting one of the Inseparables!

He realised d'Artagnan was still waiting for an answer. "In his tent, I suppose. What's happened – where have you...?" but d'Artagnan had taken off at a run again, leaving Fouchard with his mouth open and his musket trailing at his side.

Suddenly he realised it would not look good if d'Artagnan woke the Captain unaccompanied: the Captain might think he'd got by the guard without challenge. Although actually, waking the Captain for any reason wasn't exactly a fun experience. Deciding it would be absolutely fine to let d'Artagnan go first, he sped up just enough to arrive at the Captain's tent safely behind the tall Musketeer. He opened his mouth to advise caution: the Captain had been in a foul mood for days, trying to divide his time between this camp and the men based with the General's battalion. When he was here, he was quick tempered (in that softly-spoken, icy tone that everyone feared more than a bellow), and he would pounce on anyone who he thought was not pulling his weight. But he'd dithered about warning d'Artagnan for a split second too long. d'Artagnan didn't even slow, just shoved the tent flap aside with his shoulder as he barrelled inside, calling out Athos' name as he entered.

Fouchard knew better than to follow, contenting himself with staying outside in case he needed to prove he'd not been caught off guard, and waited for the inevitable explosion from Athos at being disturbed so rudely at this time of night. He strained his ears but heard only d'Artagnan's panting, the creak of leather, then... What was that? Sounded like a backslap. There was a moment's silence from inside, then the Captain's voice called out: "Fouchard! Fetch Etienne. And water. And something to eat. _Move_!" Fouchard jumped. How did the Captain know he was there? He could swear the man had eyes that could see through anything. Quickly he moved off as instructed – only then realising that he still wore just one boot.

* * *

 _Five hours previously: 6 pm, somewhere north-east of Zaragoza, Spain_

d'Artagnan was fed up with looking at Porthos' back. And the back of the scruffy brown mare he rode, "borrowed" many leagues back when they'd needed to change mounts again. They'd left their previous horses – also "borrowed" – in a field, and hoped the farmer would not be too disappointed with his end of the unwanted deal. The mare Porthos rode was sturdy and willing but she was skinny and her tail was rubbed raw at the top – sweet-itch, he suspected – and it annoyed him that it hadn't been treated. Horses were as important here, for transport and farming, as in France, and he'd seen some spectacular Andalusian herds in pastures as they travelled through the lower lands around Zaragoza. But the everyday farm horses were often scrawny, rough-coated beasts, and even though he had first-hand experience of how tough a struggling farmer's life could be, he hated to see any animal being neglected.

The dust from the horses' hooves rose up, clogging the air and coating his face, hands, even his tongue with a fine, gritty powder. It made his nose itch and scratched at his eyes, which only made him more irritable. He wasn't too happy about riding by daylight either, but Porthos was determined to get to the border before dawn, or they'd have to lay low for another day before getting "home". If you could call their temporary camp home.

It was now only an hour until dark and their shadows were already lengthening: skinny, long-legged ghost horses preceded them around every bend in the mountain track they followed. But they were still vulnerable to being spotted by one of the Spanish patrols in this border area. He swore under his breath as his mare stumbled on the uneven ground of the pathetic goat trail they found themselves on as they worked their way around this cursed mountainside, risking a no-doubt fatal plunge down the steep rocky slope down to the ravine on his right. This bloody country!

He knew he was being unreasonably grumpy. The scenery was stunning, and they had both initially found it inspiring. Porthos particularly had enthused about it with unusual lyricism for the normally prosaic soldier, remarking that it looked like a giant's playground. d'Artagnan could see what he meant: the landscape was exaggeratedly huge in design. Steep, tree-clad mountainsides were topped with bare granite outcrops which glowed pink in the late evening sun, swooping down to deeply shadowed gorges and ravines with crumbling sides and dotted with fallen boulders, more often than not hiding streams of clear, freezing cold clear water which tumbled and foamed their way importantly between the massive slabs of granite.

There was a smattering of hamlets clinging to clefts in the lower foothills, and occasional abandoned fortresses and stone turrets silently guarded the valleys. These offered the best pathways but they also hosted the richest soils with fields of crops picked out with stone walls, animal enclosures and shelters – which meant people. So they had avoided crossing or skirting the more populated lowlands wherever possible.

Now, on the return journey, they were both fed up with constantly checking the map, craning their necks to find an elusive pathway between two mountain folds, picking their way along uneven slopes and across boulder-strewn streambeds. They were saddle-sore, short on sleep, low on rations, their skin itched with the ingrained dirt of a long journey, and d'Artagnan, for one, couldn't wait to see the welcoming sight of their own tented village and the promise of a hot meal and a soft palliasse to sleep on. He was tired: bone-tired; drained; exhausted; shattered; saddle-weary. In short, he'd had enough.

Although, if he was honest, life on the frontline hadn't been too bad, so far. More waiting around than he'd expected, and a lot less action. No grand battles yet, no standing on the front line facing the enemy down. It had almost been an anticlimax as his initial heightened trepidation had slowly faded in the face of the mind-numbing reality of life behind the battle lines.

As the Musketeer regiment had travelled south toward the Spanish border on the trek from Paris, he'd been aware of a growing sense of nervous anticipation, almost excitement, which he knew – from looking at the seasoned faces of the older Musketeers around him – was probably misplaced. He guessed they were exaggerating the atrocities of war (the older soldiers had all taken turns around the nightly campfires to recount their stories from previous battles and skirmishes and he could tell that much of it was vastly enhanced by nostalgia). Even so he was eager with anticipation, ready to test his mettle on a true battlefield and full of determination to be the best, to show no fear, to keep going no matter how tough the conditions of war; to prove himself.

But what he hadn't been prepared for – hadn't even thought about – was the sheer boredom of sitting for days and weeks on an inactive border, waiting for orders to engage.

They had seen a bit of action when they'd been ordered to move further south after the rest of their force was sent to join General Marche's men, but mostly the skirmishes with small incursions of Spanish soldiers had felt little different from any of his encounters with bandits and mercenaries over his two years with the Musketeers.

Which is why he and Porthos had jumped at the chance to escort a high-level Spanish diplomat to and from a top secret meeting with the Commander-in-Chief of the French army, the Marquis de Aunchy, when Athos asked for volunteers. Anything was better than another long night on guard duty followed by trying to sleep in the airless tent he shared with five other young Musketeers, then a spell on water-carrying or wood-chopping duty before supper. He had even found himself thinking wistfully about Palace guard duty, which had at least held the promise of some court intrigue or a new Louis tantrum to laugh about. Discretely, of course.

Porthos was just as bored and frustrated at the lack of action, if better at hiding it than d'Artagnan. So the pair of them had volunteered with such alacrity that Athos had almost laughed – almost. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

They had spent two weeks criss-crossing the mountainous southern border region, moving by night and lying low during the day, until they were within sniffing distance of France again. Their daylight resting places were usually too hot and uncomfortable to do more than doze - like today's: a thorn bush on a steep, stony slope stinking of goat shit – and in any case one of them would always be on watch, meaning they were both now worn out and their bodies ached for some decent rest. Not helped by the fact that his current mount, taken from a valley farm that morning, was clearly not used to rough terrain and frequently stumbled, which kept d'Artagnan tense in the saddle and longing for his own mare, Nuit, who was hopefully still safe in the French camp awaiting his return.

The stolen mare caught her foot again and lurched, nearly sending d'Artagnan head-first over her shoulder. Only his quick reactions, and a life-time's experience on horseback, enabled him to clamp his legs around the horse's sides, grab a hand-full of mane and haul his centre of gravity back to the vertical. Immediately he noticed the horse was now lame. Cursing, he whistled to Porthos and slung a leg over the front of the saddle, dismounting smoothly, automatically drawing his pistol and checking around as he landed. He couldn't see any immediate danger but the shadows were deepening and just because there was nothing visible didn't mean they weren't being observed.

He ran a practised hand down the back of the mare's foreleg, feeling for the puffiness or warmth that might indicate a muscle sprain. Nothing. He glanced over his shoulder – to see Porthos disappearing around the next bend in the path, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had stopped. He whistled again but didn't dare call out, so could only watch helplessly as Porthos disappeared from view behind a shoulder of steep mountainside.

Cursing quietly, he persuaded the horse to lift its foot and immediately saw the problem: a large stone had wedged itself between her shoe and the sensitive frog of the hoof. He swopped his pistol for his _main gauche_ and expertly flipped the stone out. In the gloom he couldn't tell if there was bruising to the foot, so he led the horse a few paces then remounted, satisfied the mare was now putting equal weight on that leg. He urged her into a reluctant trot and headed for the bend to catch up with Porthos.

As he rounded the rocky shoulder, slowing to a walk again to pick a careful way between the stones littering the pathway just here, he appreciated two things quickly. Firstly, it was no wonder that Porthos hadn't heard his whistle: this section of path was crumbling after a rock slide and he would have been concentrating on finding a safe way through the treacherous terrain.

Secondly, a safe pathway had just become completely irrelevant. d'Artagnan was drawing his arquebus and kicking his mount into a reluctant trot even as his eyes took in the sight of Porthos, feet planted square on the ground, his horse whinnying and shying away from flashing swords as four or five Spanish soldiers attacked.

d'Artagnan aimed at the nearest back and pulled the trigger, seeing the man tumble to the ground. In one fluid movement he discarded his arquebus and drew his rapier as the nearest horseman swung round to face the new challenge. Before his tired brain had time to register the sound of a second shot, however, his horse had stumbled again. This time he had no chance to stay mounted, as the poor animal crashed to her knees and plunged over the side of the ravine, taking d'Artagnan with her.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Oh, yeah... probably should have warned of the (literal) cliffie..._ _Now, be nice - remember it's my birthday!_


	2. Chapter 2: Call to the Soldiers I

**Chapter 2: Call to the Soldiers I**

 _Musketeer camp at Saltèguet, 11.05pm_

Athos lit a second candle from the one propped on a wooden crate by his bed, and waved d'Artagnan to the only chair in the small tent. He wedged the new candle into the holder on the table and looked at him properly for the first time as the flame guttered and flared.

He'd sprung from his bed when the Gascon erupted into his tent, having been resting in shirt and breeches, reading by candlelight and trying not to worry about the pair of them. He'd been expecting them back for days now so his first reaction was one of huge relief at the sight of the young Musketeer bursting into his tent, and he'd stepped in for a hug before taking in the lad's appearance. Instantly he'd realised the youngster's clothes were sopping wet and he could feel the tension trembling through his body. Tension, or exhaustion?

In the improved light he could see that the young Musketeer was sodden. His hair dripped in clumps around his face as he sat, one hand cradling the other, head down near his knees, trying to catch his breath. The Gascon's face was hidden but his torn shirt and badly scuffed boots hinted at a long journey. Athos gathered wine and glasses, setting them down on the table behind d'Artagnan, then handed the lad a water bottle before seating himself on his bed, prepared to wait until d'Artagnan was ready to speak.

It was only then that he noticed he'd automatically retrieved three glasses. He shut his eyes for a second and breathed deeply to quash his feeling of rising dread. When he opened his eyes again he found d'Artagnan had raised his head and was looking straight at him. Athos winced as he saw, for the first time, the blood dripping steadily down the side of d'Artagnan's face and the bruising on his chin. Good job he'd already instructed Fouchard to fetch Etienne, their camp medic, even before knowing if d'Artagnan was injured. After all, returning late from a mission deep into Spanish territory, and without Porthos ( _without Porthos_!), it was a no-brainer: they had obviously run into trouble.

D'Artagnan saw a flicker of fear cross Athos' face and mentally kicked himself for not yet speaking. Breath or no breath, he should have told Athos straight away. But he only got as far as saying "Porthos" before breaking into a fit of coughing as his dry throat betrayed him.

Athos rose swiftly and caught d'Artagnan by the shoulders as he coughed, supporting him and patting him on the back while trying to quash the dread that twisted at his gut. Was Porthos still alive?

The tent flap opened and Etienne burst in, carrying his medical supplies in a satchel which he dumped on the table. He crouched in front of d'Artagnan as the latter took a pull from the water bottle and tried to compose himself.

Looking up at Athos Etienne asked succinctly: "Injuries?"

Athos shook his head: he didn't know yet.

D'Artagnan lifted his head again, his breathing under control again, and pushed Etienne firmly away. "I'm fine. Athos, can I speak?"

He meant: could he speak in front of Etienne. Athos nodded, jerkily, desperate to hear his news yet dreading it at the same time.

"We were ambushed earlier tonight. Porthos is injured. We have to leave straight away so we can get him back across the border before it gets light."

For a moment Athos' emotions warred ( _Porthos was alive! Porthos was injured!_ ) before his commander's brain kicked in and squashed all other thoughts. Not sure of the importance of retrieving Porthos before dawn, none-the-less he did a quick calculation. He'd been writing reports and letters since eating supper – since almost eating supper, he amended, remembering the plate of congealed food he'd pushed around his plate – four or five hours ago; so it was still some time off midnight, giving them maybe seven hours before full dawn.

He stood, pushed aside Etienne's medical bag to free up the map lying on the top of the table, and brought the map around to where d'Artagnan could see it without having to move. "Where is he?"

d'Artagnan scowled, but whether at the map or at Etienne – who was ignoring the Gascon's efforts to fend him off, and had doggedly started to clean blood from his face – Athos couldn't tell. A moment later it was clear, when d'Artagnan explained in a voice that was gruff with exhaustion or despair: "I'm not sure. We were well off track. Can I have more light? And for pity's sake, Etienne, leave it. I'm fine!"

Etienne sat back on his haunches and eyed the stubborn Musketeer, spreading his hands out in a gesture of surrender. "Have it your own way, youngster. I'll wait till you've briefed Athos, and see to you when he's set off, but don't think I don't know that you're nursing injuries: that arm, for one."

d'Artagnan hardly seemed to notice as Athos brought an oil lantern to the map table and lit it efficiently, at the same time quietly ordering Etienne to wake Jumot, the only other lieutenant in camp with Porthos still absent.

Peering at the map, d'Artagnan was thinking out loud. "It was yesterday evening, just before dusk. We'd stopped near Borredà in the morning, but Porthos was anxious to get back tonight so we set off late afternoon. We followed the Mergançol river but kept high to the ... " He hesitated, tracing the villages on the map and twisting his head, trying to visualise their route and orientate himself. "To the east of it ... no, the west, sorry." He turned his head the other way, considered, then nodded. "Yes, we crossed a river near a village about two hours before sunset. It could have been that one, feeds into the Riera del Molí." He squinted at the map, rubbing at his cheek and then wiping bloodied fingers absently on his leg.

Athos noticed that the lad's tongue managed the unfamiliar Catalan names with ease. The dialect was very similar to Gascon, he knew, being part of the langue d'oc group of languages spoken in parts of southern France and northern Spain. It was one of the reasons he'd been pleased when d'Artagnan volunteered for the mission. In peasant clothing and with d'Artagnan's linguistic advantage, he'd hoped they might pass through any casual interactions with the locals without challenge. And so they had, apparently, until they were back within sight, almost, of the French border.

Athos scowled and grabbed the cloth Etienne had used to clean d'Artagnan's face, shoving it into d'Artagnan's hand. When the latter stared at it blankly Athos prodded him. "Clean it up. You're dripping blood onto the map."

Absently, d'Artagnan balled the cloth into his right hand and reached across awkwardly to the deep gouge near his left eye. Athos sighed and took it from him, remembering how the lad had cradled his left hand. Etienne was right; he was carrying an injury there. He tipped d'Artagnan's head to the light and pressed firmly on the wound to stop the bleeding.

"It could have been this village – or, _merde_ , maybe this one..." d'Artagnan peered at the map, screwing up his face in concentration and pushing Athos' hand away. "If it was this one..."

"Did it have a church?" interrupted Athos.

d'Artagnan looked up, but his eyes were distant as he tried to remember. "No, I don't think so. We skirted round it though so I could be wrong... Wait, I did hear church bells, but from higher up the hillside. To the west."

They both poured over the map, then d'Artagnan exclaimed triumphantly and stabbed at the map.

"There! St Jaume de Frontanyà. That must be the church we heard. So we crossed maybe ... here. Yes, then we started working our way along this path around the frigging Serra del Catllaras mountain, heading for the gap at Aranyonet. Bloody awful path. We wanted to get past it before dark, but we were ambushed somewhere along ... here. Lost both the horses."

Every word d'Artagnan uttered raised more questions, but Athos forced himself to focus only on the information he needed in order to organise the rescue. He scrutinised the map, calculating quickly in his head. "Wait – you said this happened at dusk?" The Gascon nodded. "Then this can't be the right area. It must be... six or seven lieue from the border, maybe more." *

"That sounds about right."

Athos wondered if the idiot had got a concussion. "d'Artagnan, you can't have got back here in – what, four hours? – from there, on foot. What did you do, run the whole way?"

* * *

* Author's Note: Dumas used lieue, or leagues, for distance. According to Wikipedia a league was traditionally the distance a man could walk in one hour, so around 3 miles, although it varied from region to region. (The French common land league was officially 4.4km but in northern France it was just only 3.2 km whereas in Provence – south-eastern France, foothills of the Alps territory – men were men and a league was closer to 6kms!). I reckon a young, fit Musketeer with Gascon fire in his belly and a brother in need could run a marathon distance in a decent time, under 3 hours, making his run a distance of around 8 leagues. Factor in starlight, awful terrain and everything else he has to cope with, as you will see, his time of 4 hours was nothing short of a miracle. But this is d'Artagnan we are talking about!

All the place names are real and distances are broadly accurate as far as I can judge from modern maps. Take a look at Google images of the Serra de Catllaras if you're interested - the scenery is awesome and makes me want to travel there.

Sorry this is a shorter chapter but that's the rhythm of the story - I had no say in it :) Next one is a better length and will be up on Tuesday. Whether you are enjoying it or not please tell me what you think. It's scary putting a story out there and feedback of any kind really helps!


	3. Chapter 3: You're Not Alone

_Warning: those of you (like me) who love horses will remember that d'Artagnan's horse was shot from under him at the end of chapter 1. There is reference to it here, as d'Artagnan would not just skip off without noticing that he's horseless, but I haven't dwelled on it (or allowed him to) to avoid upsetting him, me and everyone else. I'm not heartless, nor is he: but he has a job to do and I didn't want to get my keyboard wet._

 **Chapter 3: You're not alone**

 _Serra de Catllaras, Northern Spain, 6.15pm_

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and blinked blearily into the twilight. For several seconds he just breathed, trying to work out why his head was pounding, his leg hurt and his back felt as if it was on fire. The last thing he remembered was seeing Porthos fighting for his life, surrounded by Spanish soldiers. After that everything was a blur: all he knew was that he needed to find Porthos. Fast.

Looking around he realised that he was lying head first down a slope. Above him there was a dark shape, then a steep slope up to an indigo sky. The first stars were just appearing, he noticed absently, lifting his head prior to rising. Immediately every bit of his body protested the movement. Bile rushed into his throat and he tried to roll to his side, vaguely noticing that he couldn't move his right leg but too busy retching to think about it. He coughed, spat bile and muttered a few choice curses that Porthos would have been proud of, had he been within earshot, until he'd regained a semblance of control.

Pulling deep breaths in through his nose he tried to sit properly upright so he could see where he was. That's when he realised that his sword was missing, presumably lost in the depths of the ravine below where he'd ground to a halt, half way to the bottom. And there was a horse lying across his leg.

Presumably the weight on his leg was what had stopped him from sliding all the way to the bottom, and a likely life-threatening landing. A flicker of gratitude disappeared as soon as he realised his leg was trapped, pinning him in place on the fragile slope.

He yanked at his foot repeatedly, without success. He flopped back onto his elbows, tipping his head back in despair. Bloody animal! He loved all creatures, and especially horses, and felt slightly sick looking at the shadowy mound of the beast who'd carried him safely – albeit clumsily – for most of the day, but right now his desperate need to get free and find Porthos was swamping any other emotions.

He struggled to sit up again, feeling the pull of scrapes and bruises on his back where he'd slid down the steep slope. He remembered some of it now – the feeling of weightlessness as he'd flown over the mare's shoulder, landing on his back with a juddering thud; the bounce that made him bite his tongue as he landed again, this time on his shoulders, then the awful, precipitous descent head first - stones and rocks tearing at his shirt and then his skin. The last thing he remembered was seeing the black shape of his former mount sliding towards him faster than he was moving. He'd been lucky that she hadn't completely flattened him.

An overriding sense of urgency had him tugging at his foot again frantically. It had all happened so fast, but it didn't feel as if he'd been unconscious for long, maybe only seconds. Which meant that Porthos could still be fighting for his life.

'Come on!' he told himself. He tried a new tack, digging his fingers into the stony ground under his calf, as far as he could reach, dragging out loose rocks and soil to create a small hollow. Then he braced his other foot against the saddle and pushed with all his strength, finally managing to roll the animal's weight away from him enough to drag his trapped foot into the hollow and free of the crushing weight of the horse.

He flopped back again with a small sob, panting, as blood returned to his foot and with it, pain. It took an effort of will to roll to his hands and knees and then push himself to his feet. Immediately he winced as his ankle started throbbing in earnest. But his fear for Porthos drove him into action without stopping to investigate. Hopping awkwardly to his saddle he retrieved his pistol, spare shot, powder pouch and water bottle, and, after glancing up at the slope above him, the jute bag containing the last of their food. It would be a long climb back up and he didn't want to leave anything that might be useful. Quickly he dug down to the bottom of his saddle bag until his fingers closed around a small but well-filled leather pouch which he grabbed with a feeling of relief. Finally he slung his blanket over his shoulder hoping they would get the chance to use it. It would be just his luck to be picked off by a marksman as soon as he started climbing.

Clambering awkwardly around the mound of the horse, he paused to pull gently on her ear with a pang of regret for the wasted life. Then, hardening his heart, he traced a possible path with his eyes, and started climbing.

It was a treacherous route, better suited to goats than human feet. Probably _was_ a goat path, he realised, as he slipped again and again, shredding hands and knees as he scrabbled for purchase on the loose stones. At least it answered one question, he thought grimly: any Spaniard still in the vicinity would have heard him coming a mile off, and he would have been easy to pick off as he clawed his way slowly back to the main path.

Even so he forced himself to pause, trying to pant quietly, for several agonising seconds before daring to raise his head above the lip of the slope. He checked right and left, but the path looked innocent in the moonlight. Wait: up? He squinted up at the craggy slope above the path which was pitted with shadows, rockfalls and crevices. He had no way of being sure whether there was a hidden watcher. He shut his eyes for a second then set his jaw, rose silently to his feet and limped across the path in two quick strides, flattening himself against the higher ground and pausing to listen again. No shout of discovery, no crunching footsteps, no sudden shadows moving.

Pistol primed and to hand, he started to work his way back towards the rock fall where the attack had taken place. It was hard to orient himself but he didn't recognise the part of the path he was treading at the moment so he figured the ambush site had to be back the way they'd come.

A few tense moments later he rounded a buttress of rock and stopped dead, heart thudding painfully in his chest. Porthos!

The burly musketeer was lying motionless on his back, encircled by several other bodies. Grotesquely his sword, his beloved schiavona, was pointing to the sky, as if still ready to fend off attackers. d'Artagnan just managed to force himself to check his surroundings one more time before throwing caution to the winds and running up to him, skidding to a halt and flinging himself to his knees beside the fallen warrior.

He stretched a reluctant hand out towards Porthos' bloodied face, hesitating before finally resting his trembling fingers on the muscular neck of his friend. Hoping, yet not daring to hope, for a pulse. Thinking of Athos and how he would have to tell him that his bedrock was gone. Thinking of Aramis waiting for news at the monastery. Thinking of Tréville. Trying not to think about himself and how he would cope without his beloved brother, by his side...

His own heart raced as he shut his eyes to concentrate. Only then did his bloodied finger tips, throbbing from the grazes and bruises gathered on his climb, finally register the steady thump, thump of a pulse that was definitely not his own.

Blinking back tears he sat back on his heels and flung his head up, a long-held breath escaping him past a blossoming smile of relief.

For that moment, it was just the two of them; one man oblivious but breathing – _hear him breathing_! – and the other aware only of love, and thankfulness, and the blessed sweetness of a life still lived.

Then reality crashed in on him and he jerked himself back into action: they weren't safe here. Checking Porthos over quickly he found, apart from the head wound which had coated his face in gore, a nasty, deep-looking sword wound to his leg which was still leaking blood far too fast. Working swiftly he delved into the leather pouch retrieved from the bottom of his saddle bag, and pulled out a piece of thick wadding he could use as a dressing, and a bandage; quickly he packed the wound with the wadding before wrapping the bandage tightly over everything – padding, torn leather trousers and all. That would hold it temporarily. Now to find somewhere safe to treat him and hopefully bring him round.

It was not an easy job to haul the dead weight of the burly Musketeer off the pathway. d'Artagnan's slighter frame struggled to move Porthos' heavier bulk and his feet skidded away from him repeatedly as he dragged Porthos up the tumbled slope of the rockfall above the path. He had scouted quickly both ways along the path and tried several goat-tracks up the hillside, eventually noticing that some of the shadows in the rock face above the path hid crevices, one of which, surely, would be deep enough to shelter in. He'd hesitated only for a moment, knowing how hard it would be to get Porthos up there, but really he had no choice. He didn't know why the Spanish patrol had ridden off without taking their dead, or stealing Porthos' sword – maybe they'd gone after his escaping horse, scruffy mare that she was, or maybe they hadn't seen d'Artagnan go over the edge and were hunting for him further back along the path. Either way, he didn't want to be still on the path if they returned, or anyone else happened along here.

Part way up the slope Porthos started to come around. There was a sticky moment when he went from a floppy heap of limp bulk to a growling bundle of flailing arms and legs. One fist had connected hard with d'Artagnan's face, sending him flying backwards with an "oomph!" Quickly he'd scrambled upright again, hissing at Porthos to keep quiet and trying to catch his fists before he got punched again. It had taken several seconds, but Porthos' squinting eyes had finally made sense of d'Artagnan's upside down face and he subsided with a groan. d'Artagnan sat back on his heels to catch his breath, resting one hand on Porthos' shoulder, patting him soothingly, as his other explored the new tender spot on his jaw. Even semi-conscious, the man packed a mean punch!

"Wassup?" Porthos tried to sit up, then fell back with a growl as the movement pulled on the wound in his thigh.

"Take it easy, Porthos," d'Artagnan counselled him. "You've got a nasty gash in that leg – and no doubt a headache?"

Porthos reached an unsteady hand up to his head, wincing as he found the gash.

D'Artagnan slapped his hand away. "Don't touch! Wait till I've got you somewhere safe. Just let me do the work and don't use that leg, alright?" d'Artagnan shoved his hands under Porthos' arms and started hauling him up the slope again, sending stones skittering down onto the path below. It was easier now that Porthos was conscious and holding his own body taut, sometimes managing to push on his good leg when d'Artagnan struggled.

Eventually they'd made it to the ledge where he'd seen dark shadows, and to his joy he discovered one of the crevices was indeed a cave – narrow and low, but big enough for a burly Musketeer to rest in provided he didn't mind lying down. With a last determined heave, d'Artagnan got Porthos' body and most of his legs into the cave and they collapsed together, both panting raggedly.

After a few moments, d'Artagnan rolled to his hands and knees and peered at the rent in Porthos' trousers, lifting the bandage and gingerly pulling back the ripped leather, wincing at the sight of the deep cut hidden beneath. Blood welled instantly from the gash and d'Artagnan quickly grabbed another of the bandages he'd stuffed in his pocket. He placed it over the wound without unravelling it, and pressed firmly. Porthos hissed in pain, his dark eyes watching d'Artagnan intently. "Is it deep?"

"It'll need stitches but it's not too bad – you've been lucky," d'Artagnan reassured him.

Porthos sank back onto his elbows. "You always were a terrible liar," he chuckled lightly. d'Artagnan ignored him, watching in concern the blood welling between his fingers as he continued to press on the bandage. "Hold this," he ordered, placing Porthos' large hands over the wound and immediately delving into his pocket again for the medical pouch. Thank goodness he'd always been happy to help Aramis when he was tending any of the Musketeers, and since leaving for the front d'Artagnan had often helped the medical team travelling with them, so he'd had enough practice on wounds to feel reasonably confident now. Working quickly, he selected a needle, threaded it expertly then hesitated, looked at Porthos.

"You good about this?" he enquired, casually.

Porthos glowered at him. "What're you trying to say?"

d'Artagnan grinned. "You know full well. This needs doing quickly but you can't make a fuss; those Spaniards may still be nearby and..."

Porthos interrupted, indignantly. "Fuss? I never make a fuss! Bloody slander, that is. You apologise right now, ya cheeky little turd..."

It was d'Artagnan's turn to interrupt, smiling inwardly at the soldier's language which had worsened since leaving Paris. "Porthos, you are the most courageous man I know, except when it comes to stitching and then you're a complete wimp. I don't want to knock you out – not when you're probably concussed already. So I'll ask you again: are we good?"

Porthos huffed and flopped back to lie fully flat. "Get on with it," he grumped, tersely.

d'Artagnan didn't hang about. He was only too aware of the precariousness of their situation, and even as he used his knife to widen the rip on Porthos trousers to give him better access to the wound, tipped neat spirits into the jagged cut from the small bottle in the medical pouch, ignoring Porthos' hissed curses, and pulled the skin together to place the first neat stitch, he was simultaneously cataloguing everything he needed to do.

Uppermost in his mind was their distance from France. As soon as he'd finished he would get their map from Porthos who'd been navigating for the last part of the day, but he reckoned they must still be a good few leagues from the border. There was no way Porthos could walk any distance with this wound, hence d'Artagnan's relief when he'd found the cave. He'd have to leave Porthos here and go for help.

He thanked God it hadn't happened deeper in Spanish soil, or their situation would have been pretty bleak. As it was it would be a tall order to make it back to France on foot but he would have no choice; this far into the mountains he would be lucky to find any villages or farms, let alone a convenient horse grazing in a meadow. If he got a move on, he should be able to do it easily under cover of darkness. It all depended on exactly how far away the border was.

"You're muttering," Porthos grumbled accusingly.

d'Artagnan glanced at him and smiled apologetically, knowing full well that Porthos was picking a fight on purpose. He needed distracting. "Trying to remember where we are in relation to the border," he explained. "Can you reach the map and take a look?"

Porthos did some muttering of his own as he wriggled cautiously onto one hip, yelping as d'Artagnan pushed a bit too deep with the next stitch, but he managed to extricate the well-folded map from his hip pocket and unroll it. "Can't see a bloody thing," he observed tetchily, dropping it to the ground and lying back again.

"I'll have a look in a minute. Nearly done. How's your head?"

Porthos stopped glaring at d'Artagnan and rubbed his forehead speculatively, then looked at his fingers and swallowed. "S'bleedin' a bit," he commented, shutting his eyes.

D'Artagnan placed another 3 stitches in quick succession then slapped a new bandage over the wound and wrapped it firmly in place with another bandage over everything – leathers and all. "Done," he announced with relief. Porthos just grunted, so d'Artagnan took advantage of his lethargy and efficiently bandaged the wound on Porthos' forehead, reflecting that he'd thought half a dozen bandages to be excessive when he was packing. Now he wished he'd brought more.

He tucked the last unused bandage in Porthos' pocket and squeezed him briefly on the shoulder. "Back in a minute."

Grabbing the map he wriggled back through the narrow opening and peered up at the sky. A patch of clouds was now obscuring the three-quarter moon. Cursing under his breath he slid cautiously down the narrow goat-path – more a series of ledges than an actual path – and back to the relatively broad trail they'd been following around the side of the hill. He jogged stiffly back to where he'd left the water skin and blanket when he'd dropped them beside Porthos. He was feeling every scrape and bruise from his fall all the more after his short period of inactivity. But then the clouds shifted and a ray of moonlight back-lit the scene, distracting him completely from his own misery as he saw the large bloody patch of sand where Porthos had been lying.

 _Merde_! That was one large pool of blood, and worse still, there were clear drag marks outlined with a trail of rust-coloured grit, marking the direction in which he'd pulled Porthos.

Hastily he dragged one of the Spaniards' bodies over to cover Porthos' blood. No need to give anyone too many clues about looking for a badly injured man. He paused, noticing the man he'd just moved had been carrying two pistols, and stooped to liberate one of them along with his shot and powder pouch. Hopefully when the rest of the Spaniards returned to remove the bodies – as he was sure they would, sooner or later – they would think the pouch had just come off in the fight, and might forget this particular man carried two pistols. He guessed they had assumed Porthos was dead – a logical conclusion given the amount of blood coating his face and the seriousness of his leg wound. If they returned and didn't find him, would they search or would they decide he must just have been stunned and had now fled the scene? He definitely did not want them working out how much of the blood was Porthos', which might lead them to think about severe injuries and nearby hiding places.

He gathered up his belongings and shoved Porthos' sword into his belt, then walked backwards, scuffing the loose soil and scree over the blood-trail to obscure the marks they'd left. Then he took time to examine the map, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight.

His heart sank. It was worse than he'd thought. He knew roughly which path they were on but was not sure how far along it they'd travelled before being attacked. It was entirely possible they were 5 or 6 leagues from the border as the crow flies, and he would doubtless have to detour around some minor natural obstacles – the odd gorge or mountain, for example. At a walk that would take him most of the night. He'd have to run it.

Deep in thought, he turned to re-scale the rocky slope leading to the cave, and instantly caught sight of something he really, _really_ didn't want to see: a horseman trotting slowly towards him, only a few hundred _pied_ away.

* * *

Author's note: yes, I looked up feet, yards and metres too. The French used pied – again, of variable length but the Paris pied de roi was 324mm or 12.8 inches - slightly longer than an English foot of 304 mm or just under 12 inches. Hmm. I wonder if it's true what they say about the correlation between foot size and...


	4. Chapter 4: Keep Marching On

_I've been forgetting my manners! I would like to thank all those who have favourited or followed this story, and especially those who have reviewed. Your support is massively encouraging - bless you!_

 _Also I have forgotten to say that, of course, none of us own The Musketeers and I have borrowed the characters as developed by the BBC but the story comes from my imagination, I do not profit from it (except in that it makes me happy to continue 'hearing' and 'seeing' the brotherhood in my mind's eye - that is invaluable!)_

 **Chapter 4: Keep Marching On**

 _Serra de Catllaras, 6.30pm_

 _Merde_! Adrenaline surged through him as he glanced to his right – the drop down to the ravine where his horse lay – then instantly discarded it as a possibility. For one thing his movement across the path was likely to be seen; for another it would leave him and the pistols too far from Porthos for him to defend the injured man if he was discovered. So he gambled that he hadn't yet been spotted, and leapt from a standstill, stretching his fingers to grab the ledge above his head and using his momentum to swing his legs up and onto the narrow outcropping of rock. He was now laying full stretch at a height of about 8 feet – almost exactly at the eye level of the horseman when he passed.

Risking another small movement by glancing under his arm he saw it was too late to move further up the rock-face: the man was already much closer and would surely hear any more movement, even if he didn't see it. Lowering his head slowly to the ground he held his breath and prayed harder than he had ever prayed in his life.

The horseman passed by.

D'Artagnan guessed that the rider's focus was entirely on the unexpected sight of dark shapes on the pathway ahead, but even so his limbs started shaking with relief at the let-off, as the hoof beats moved twenty feet up the path then stopped.

There was a double thump as the man's feet hit the gravel, then the intermittent crunching of footsteps and exclamations as, presumably, he checked the bodies. Then a creak of leather as he remounted, and finally the spurt of hoofbeats accelerating as he took off along the track at a fast canter.

Pushing himself onto hands and knees he tried to see where the man was heading, but the shoulder of the hill had already obscured him. Releasing a long-held breath he rose swiftly and scrambled the rest of the way up to the cave as fast as he could.

Reaching the opening he crawled in to find Porthos had turned himself around and was leaning against the cave wall just inside the opening, holding a heavy lump of rock in both hands.

d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow pointedly.

Porthos looked casual. "Just coverin' ya. That was a bit of a moment, wasn't it?"

d'Artagnan grinned, still heady with relief, and clapped Porthos on the shoulder as he wriggled further in.

"Thank you, _mon ami_. He looked like he had a destination in mind so I'm not going to hang around in case the patrol that ambushed us is still close by." He passed the water skin to Porthos and unrolled the blanket, wrapping it around the big man's shoulders and tucked one side under his body to help ward off the chill inside the cave. Then he pulled out his own pistol and the pilfered Spanish one, and laid them beside Porthos along with all the shot and powder. Finally he extricated Porthos' sword from his belt – no easy feat in this cramped space – and handed it to his wounded comrade.

Porthos took it and stared at d'Artagnan, then at the sword. "Don't know what you think I'm going do with that in 'ere," he groused, half to himself. "And what're _you_ going to do if you meet any more of them bastards? Bite 'em to death?"

d'Artagnan grinned. "No one can run silently with that clanging about, and it'll just slow me down if I have to hold it still. No point taking the pistols either – I plan to avoid any patrols, not announce my presence by firing on them. It's better if you have them in case they think to look up here. It is a narrow opening and you've got plenty of shot, so I reckon you could stand your ground for a good few hours till I get back, if needs be."

Porthos frowned. "And just how long d'you think it'll take you to get 'elp, then?"

d'Artagnan busied himself unbuckling his weapons belt; without weapons it was pointless, just one more thing to jangle and slow him down. He shoved his _main gauche_ into his equipment belt. "I will be back before dawn," he told Porthos decisively.

Ignoring the big man's snort of derision, he turned to crawl out of the cave, pausing to check both ways along the path before putting his head out. Then he turned back to Porthos, finding the man staring at him with an unfathomable look on his face. "Porthos, _mon ami_ , I swear to you that I will be back by dawn! All you have to do is make sure you're still here when I get back. Agreed?"

Porthos blinked, slowly, then sighed, and nodded. "Ain't going nowhere. I'll be 'ere."

d'Artagnan stretched back a hand and took Porthos', clasping it tightly for a moment. Their eyes met and locked, and d'Artagnan felt a surge of love for this man, his beloved brother. Giving him a confident smile, he squeezed Porthos' hand one last time then slipped out. His silhouette was framed for a second in the opening against the night sky, and then he was gone.

* * *

D'Artagnan reckoned it was only a matter of time before someone came back to the ambush site. He didn't know who the lone rider had been – it could have been a farmer on his way home, but this was a desolate hillside and he thought the man looked more like a scout. In which case the soldiers, if they were still nearby, would very likely know by now that the stranger who had killed five members of their patrol (or four, plus the one d'Artagnan had shot) was no longer lying dead on the path amongst the bodies of their compatriots.

He therefore wasted no time scrambling down to the path, and took off immediately to the left, heading roughly north, anxious to get away from Porthos' hiding place as quickly as possible.

Straight away he struggled to get into a good rhythm as the throbbing pain in his ankle made it hard to run smoothly. He swore quietly, realising he was tensing in anticipation of pain every time his right foot came down. This was going to be a question of mind over matter... _What was that_?

He felt like he'd been stung in his right arm and at the same time he heard a whine near his left ear. It was a measure of his scattered wits, after the tumultuous events of the last half hour, that it took him another three strides, looking around and down at his stinging arm, before he realised that he'd been shot at. Was still being shot at, he amended, as a spurt of dirt ahead of him marked where another musket-ball had hit the path.

He didn't stop to find out where the shots were coming from. Quite apart from a strong desire not to be killed, he was still far too close to Porthos to risk being brought down. He jinked from left to right for another couple of strides giving himself a few seconds thinking time. High rock-face still to his left, precipice to his right. Moonlight on the path and marksmen behind. Not a lot of choice.

Another shot sounded closer, and something tugged sharply at his hip. Hoof-beats coming up behind. No choice at all. He hurled himself to his right, hitting the edge of the path with his shoulder and rolling straight over the edge.

His second descent down into the ravine was just as rough as the first, but this time with the bonus of doing it feet first – and not being followed down by half a ton of horse. At first he managed to use his boots to steer himself down the scree, but he quickly lost control and went into an uncontrolled roll, spinning over and over until he landed up against a large boulder with another juddering crunch. His breath came in ragged sobs as he tried to push himself up but yelped as pain shot up his left arm and flared around his rib-cage. His head spinning, he wrapped his arms around his middle and curled into himself, unable to do anything but try to breathe without crying out.

It was a good minute before he had himself under control and thought he might be able to move without throwing up, or whimpering in an unmanly fashion. Raising his head he realised for the first time that he was half lying in the shallow stream that raced along the foot of the ravine, foaming and gushing its way over rocks and boulders. Cold water pooled around his body, unexpectedly welcome against the throbbing of all the cuts and scrapes down his back. He started to push himself up again, but then he heard something over the bubbling of the water that made him freeze his movement instantly.

Straining his ears, he realised he could hear rapid Spanish coming from his left, up the slope he'd just catapulted down. Turning his head cautiously he saw shapes milling around at the top of the slope, and several men working their way down the slope. _Sacre bleu_ , he had to move! But before he could, a sixth sense made him turn his head slowly back downstream, and his heart jumped in his chest. Barely twenty paces in front of him stood a man on horseback. Pointing directly at d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan shut his eyes in utter despair. He couldn't believe his rescue effort was over so quickly. He thought of Porthos lying in the cave waiting for him to do what he'd promised and return with help.

He hoped Porthos wouldn't hear the shot that killed him, so he would have the luxury of hope for a little while longer.

Time seemed to slow as he waited for the sound of the shot, wondering if he would hear it before it hit him. The babbling of the water and the shouts of the searchers and the thundering of his heart receded and for a moment he was somewhere else entirely: his mind conjured his favourite memory of Constance leaning over to wake him with a soft kiss on their last morning together, her unbound hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, her eyes dancing with love and courage. Swallowing, he opened his eyes again, determined to face death with his head held high.

And found the horseman was now pointing _over_ his head, instead of at him.

He blinked sweat out of his eyes, not daring to move. The horseman nudged his horse a step closer, and now d'Artagnan could pick out odd phrases as the soldiers called to each other.

" _No lo veo!"_ He knew that phrase from Aramis: I don't see him. The voice came from right behind d'Artagnan and he stopped breathing, heart thudding.

" _Debe estar aqui por alguna parte! Sigues buscandolo!"_ He must be here somewhere! Keep looking! d'Artagnan translated automatically as the horseman in front of him barked out orders. His horse fretted as the rider stared around the streambed and seemed to look right at d'Artagnan for a long few seconds. Then someone shouted from the top of the path, and the Spaniard wheeled his horse around and sent it plunging up the slope on the right to search the far side of the ravine.

d'Artagnan slowly let out the breath he'd been holding, but he didn't dare move for a long time, unsure whether anyone was still behind him. He couldn't quite believe that they hadn't spotted him.

All he could think was that the moon was behind him so he must be in the shadow of the boulder he had fetched up against. Having the good fortune to have the wind knocked out of him by his fall had meant they had somehow failed to spot his huddled body. But they were still searching up and down the ravine so he stayed motionless for as long as he could.

Eventually however the water seeping into his clothes made him realise he needed to move soon, before he was too cold to control his legs. Cautiously he peered around the back of the boulder: nothing there. He rolled to his feet and straightened up slowly and with difficulty, feeling more scrapes and bumps making their presence felt as he moved; still no one in sight.

With a sigh of relief, he clambered out of the water then hesitated. Which way? Hoping they had finished searching the path and would concentrate on the far side of the ravine, he took a chance and headed back up to the trail.

At the top he had a feeling of déjà vu as he crawled up the last couple of feet and cautiously raised his head to peer along the pathway. It seemed deserted. Checking the far side, he could see that the rock face had given way to a less precipitous wooded slope which he thought he could manage, so he took a breath and was about to head across the path when he heard footsteps. Ducking down and flattening himself against the slope, he heard someone walking towards him.

His head was only a few inches below the level of the path and he was sure it must be visible but he didn't dare raise it to check; any movement would surely attract attention. Instead, d'Artagnan found himself praying again with a sincerity he hadn't managed for many years. The footsteps came closer, and there was a shower of grit landing in his hair, then the steps had passed him and the sound receded – before stopping a short distance away. There was a silence, then the sound of trickling water. It was a moment before d'Artagnan realised the stranger must be relieving himself.

Very, very cautiously he raised his head and peered along the path, his eyes barely clearing the ground. The man had stopped around twenty paces away and was just readjusting his trousers. As d'Artagnan watched, he ambled across the path and settled on a boulder to keep watch. D'Artagnan swore under his breath and ducked back down again. It looked like he would have to head the other way after all.

Turning cautiously on the loose slope, he checked the other side – and saw another man working his way along the ridge almost opposite him, and a third picking a route slowly along the streambed at the bottom of the ravine. D'Artagnan froze again, hoping his silhouette was lost in the background of the rocky slope he lay on. He felt incredibly vulnerable, clinging to the bare slope. His heart was pounding and he was convinced that he would be spotted at any second.

But there was no shout of discovery, and after a few heart-stopping minutes Ridge-man had moved far enough ahead of him for d'Artagnan to risk moving. However Ravine-man was still close, and his hope that they would concentrate on searching that direction was dashed when he noticed yet another man scrambling along half way up the slope he lay on. Damn! How many searchers were there?

Mind made up he checked along the path again. The watch man was still sitting on his boulder, but facing away. With a last look over his shoulder to reassure himself that no one was looking his way, he rose to a crouch and moved silently across the pathway. When he reached the slope he started to climb as swiftly as possible, placing his feet on plants and grass where he could to avoid dislodging stones that might alert the guard further up the path. His heart was thumping and he had to resist the temptation to look over his shoulder, expecting to hear a shout of challenge at any second. Ten paces from the path; twenty ... he was amongst tree trunks and bushes now; was he safe or was a pistol even now lining up on his head?

He couldn't bear it any longer; a thicker tree trunk offered enough cover for him to flatten himself against it and peer back down at the path, heart in mouth.

The guard had gone.

Relief flooded him and made his legs tremble. Or was that exhaustion? He leaned against the trunk for a while, just getting his breath back and waiting until he could hold his _main gauche_ without trembling. Then he gave himself a stern talking-to _(Porthos is depending on you, you numbskull! Get on with it! What would Athos say if he saw you hesitating just because you feel a bit beleaguered...? Spanish soldiers everywhere and you're only a few feet clear of the path. Move!)_ He pushed himself away from his resting place, and moved.

* * *

It was a long scramble to the top of the tree-clad slope but he couldn't risk heading back to the path, which was clearly well-patrolled, probably because it was the only good route through this part of the mountains. He would have to use the slopes of the Sierra de Catllaras, keeping amongst the trees and on the steeper ground where horses couldn't easily travel.

Reaching the top he used the scant moonlight to pick out a route down to the next fold of the mountain, lined up a tall tree with a point on the next ridge to keep himself straight, took a deep breath, and set off at a run down through the trees.

It was hard going. Hard on his ankles, as he ran on slopes, the ground underfoot being alternately loose scree and slippery pine-needles. Roots and loose boulders threatened to trip him up constantly and the moonlight frequently vanished as clouds raced across the sky. He navigated from instinct, using his memory of the map but mostly working from starlight – keeping the north star on his left shoulder, the moon on his right. When he could see neither he just picked the route that looked kindest on his feet, found a landmark to head for and relied on making corrections when he got his bearings again.

He tried to keep a steady pace but it was impossible. At times he was climbing rocks and boulders to work his way back onto a better trail; at other times he was slipping and sliding on rock chippings, or picking his way across stream beds. When he could run, he ran fast, keeping his steps short and his weight over his feet, arms out to balance himself when his feet slipped. His ankle pain had settled to a constant hot ache, and if he placed his foot awkwardly it sent fiery pain shooting up his leg, but he mostly managed to ignore it, pushing the pain to a distant corner of his awareness.

It was hard work. He was a fast runner – loved running, in fact, and had missed it in the Musketeers, when most of his days were spent sparring on foot or riding through crowded streets or on long-distance missions. He loved speed, and relished the few chances he got to push his body or his horse fast, sending the adrenaline rushing through his body and feeling the wind in his hair. As a child he had run for the fun of it, challenging his cousins or school friends to races, or running home from a day at market in the town a couple of hours' walk away, sometimes because he'd lingered too long and had chores to do at home, but more often just because he enjoyed pushing himself.

Now he had no choice. He had a long way to travel, and very little time. His body was hurting. Weeks of hard travel and low rations had already drained his energy reserves to the limit, and now he was carrying bruises and grazes from his fall, his ribs ached and his left wrist was, he thought, broken: the joint felt tender and swollen and he couldn't bend his hand far in either direction.

But none of that mattered.

He knew what he had to do, and Porthos was relying on him.

It was as simple as that.

* * *

He thought he'd been going for an hour or more when his stomach cramped. At first he ignored it, in the same way that he was steadfastly ignoring every other negative signal from his body (pain, exhaustion, thirst, fear...). But both he and Porthos had had bouts of diarrhoea on this journey: he'd learned it was the curse of every soldier in the field, when rations are short and food storage unhygienic, water is not always fresh, and cramped living conditions mean illness is swiftly shared. So after a few minutes he knew he would have to stop and relieve himself.

He slowed his pace and looked around. He was skirting the edge of a valley now, moonlight catching patches of crops and the white gleam of sheep or goats ahead, suggesting he was close to the first big village he had to pass, La Pobla de Lillet. It wasn't the safest place to linger but his body was making demands that he could not ignore.

He found a patch of deep shadow and moved into the trees there, squatting behind a group of firs and feeling the relief of passing the watery stools that cramped his bowels. When the spasms passed, he cleaned himself with a handful of pine needles, fortunately soft at this time of year, and dug his hands into the soil to clean them. Vowing to find the nearest stream for a proper wash as soon as possible, he stood slowly, feeling the pull of cuts and scrapes on his back now that he'd stopped.

Raising his breeches to lace them, he froze as he heard an unmistakeable sound behind him. Turning his head slowly – so slowly! – he saw, a few paces away on the path he'd been following, a horse appear, then another, and a third. All were ridden by dark-clad men whose swords and buckles gleamed in the moonlight.

He dithered, hands still fisted in the laces that closed his trousers. Of all the times, of all the places to stop...! Then he realised that his bout of weakness might have saved his life. If he hadn't moved off the path for privacy, he might well have been spotted by the trio coming up the path behind him before he would have heard their approach.

Could they see him? Surely, if they turned their heads they would spot him as clearly as he could see them. He could do nothing therefore other than stand still, barely breathing, his back pressed against the trunk of the tree he'd squatted behind, praying that his shadow blended into the background.

He could hear the last horse's hoof beats moving past behind him then slowly receding as they moved up the path. He shut his eyes for a second, swallowing past the dryness in his throat. He'd been lucky. Again.

He puffed out a slow breath and finished lacing his trousers with fingers that betrayed his fear with their trembling. Not for himself, this fear: it was the dread of failing his brother that drained his limbs. But he hadn't failed, not yet, so he gave himself another talking to (very much sounding like Athos in his head, to his own internal amusement) and thus distracted, he stepped out from behind the tree without checking. And found himself face to face with another soldier, this one leading his horse towards the very group of trees that d'Artagnan had sheltered behind, possibly with the same motive in mind.

d'Artagnan didn't stop to wonder at God's sense of humour, or why he'd seen fit to punish his tiny ray of optimism with another encounter. He put his head down and _ran_ – past the startled soldier, not bothering to engage him, knowing he would not win if the other three came back to support an ambushed companion, not with only his _main gauche_ against their swords and pistols. As he burst out of the trees onto the path he caught a glimpse of more riders emerging from the left, and a twist of his head found the three who had passed him just halting and turning at the shout of surprise from their colleague. So he did the only thing possible: ran straight across the track, and headed down a small slope through the fields towards the huddle of cottages in the centre of the valley.

 _Weekend tomorrow, yay! Keep watching for updates, the next chapter will be up very soon. Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5: Don't be Scared to Fall

**Chapter 5: Don't Be Scared to Fall**

 _La Pobla de Lillet, 5 leagues from the border, 8.15pm_

It was hopeless, of course. He knew it the moment he chose that route: the low stone walls of the field boundaries were no obstacle to men on horseback and he was already exhausted; he would not be able to outrun them. But he refused to give up. He had a slim chance of losing them somehow amongst the dwellings, and he vowed he would keep running until he had nowhere left to run.

Hurdling the walls and scattering a group of startled, bleating sheep as he ran, he reached the first dwelling fifty paces ahead of the horsemen. He raced around the corner, eyes searching frantically for shelter, but was met with a confusion of low roofs on different levels separated by twisting footpaths. The settlement was bigger than he'd first thought, which might help him, but he would soon be in full view of the horsemen again and they would quickly hunt him down. He ran around another bend in the path, down a couple of dirt steps, put a cottage between him and his followers and jumped down onto the roof of a hut on a lower pathway, hoping his lower elevation would hide his silhouette from the searchers.

Two strides took him to the edge and a short jump across the next path which he made with ease, although his ankle responded with a spike of pain which reminded him to be careful. He leapt from one roof to the next, with no pause to look or plan his route, taking chances and making leaps beyond what he thought possible. His next jump landed him on a stone wall edging a yard, startling a pair of goats to their feet.

Behind him he could hear dogs barking, doors opening, villagers calling to each other in alarm at the sounds of the chase. Shouts and sharp commands came from all directions as the horsemen spread out around the edges of the village. It sounded like the whole village was awake now and he was panicking, knowing in spite of his efforts he would surely soon be surrounded.

He took his eyes off his feet for a second, trying to spot a way out of the village into the foothills beyond, where he might stand a chance of evading the horses. And stepped into thin air as the roof he was traversing ended sooner than he'd expected. He plunged through the air and crashed to the ground with a resounding thump.

For a moment the world stilled around him as the back of his head hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth, and his vision blurred. The panic, the urgency of his flight all receded as he fought just to stay conscious.

Slowly sounds returned, then vision, and he blinked stupidly at the sight of a man looking down at him. Then lurched upwards with a surge of adrenaline, thinking to rush him, until he noticed the muzzle of the pistol held unwaveringly in the man's hands.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a second, realising it was all over. A wave of nausea flooded his mouth as he thought of Porthos, waiting patiently in his cave. He didn't deserve to die there, slowly bleeding to death and trying to keep his hopes of rescue alive long past the time when doubts crept in. His beloved brother! Always optimistic, always supportive, fierce in battle and gentle in friendship. d'Artagnan realised he'd whispered Porthos' name in his moment of weakness, and opened his eyes again determined, for the second time that night, to look death in the eye and die with dignity.

The man standing over him hadn't moved, but he was looking at d'Artagnan intently. Seeing his eyes open again, he glanced around with something like hesitation in his eyes.

Taking in more details this time, d'Artagnan realised this man was not a soldier: he was dressed in braes and a shirt, and was likely a villager woken from his sleep and stepping out to find a stranger landing in his back yard.

The two men looked at each other for a long moment before the stranger spoke, softly.

" _Qui_ _é_ _n es Porthos_?"

d'Artagnan had learnt plenty of Spanish phrases from Aramis and they'd been grateful of it in the long journey with the Spanish diplomat, so he knew the villager had asked who Porthos was. However his grasp of more than basic phrases was unreliable and, when tired, he knew he mangled the language, especially as many words were close to his own mother tongue of Gascon.

" _Es mi hermano_." That didn't need any thought; he'd heard the word for "brother" enough on Aramis' lips.

The man regarded him as if waiting for him to say more. d'Artagnan dredged his memory for words, aware at the same time of his head pounding, something sharp digging into his hip, and the sounds of the search getting closer. What was this man thinking? He was Spanish, and d'Artagnan clearly was not; he was being hunted by Spanish soldiers so there was really no other outcome than being handed over as a prisoner. Or more likely as a spy, since he was not in uniform. Not that being identified as a French soldier would help him much in this situation either. He had no illusions about how long he would live, once captured. He glanced around quickly, hoping for a way out, but saw nothing except the stone walls of the yard and the cottage backing onto it. And meanwhile the man was still waiting for more of an explanation.

" _El esta..."_ What was the word for injured? He couldn't think. " _Ell està lesionat_." That sounded right. " _Necessito aconseguir ajuda per a ell_ _..."_ He was trying to explain that he needed to get help for Porthos, but his brain felt slow and addled and he knew there was something wrong with what he was saying.

Aware of the sound of an approaching rider, his life measured now perhaps in seconds, despair flooded him and he spoke without thought. " _Déu meu, ajudeu-me_ _..._ " and then he realised what was wrong. He'd started in Spanish but his exhaustion had got the better of him and he'd just begged his God for help in his childhood language of Gascon. Had he just sealed his fate?

" _És vostè un Gascó?"_

Maybe not.

A glimmer of hope lodged itself somewhere in d'Artagnan's belly. He could hear someone shouting in Spanish in the street beyond the roof of the yard, but the villager's focus remained on his unexpected visitor.

" _Sí, senyor, sóc un Gascó."_ Unexpectedly d'Artagnan felt his throat constrict as he confirmed his birthright. He'd thought of himself as French for so long, especially in Paris and serving the King, but the reality was that underneath it all he was still a proud Gascon.

The flame of hope was squelched with the man's next question. _"¿_ _És vostè un soldat francès?"_ The man was speaking Aranese, not Gascon, he realised, but the two dialects were similar enough for d'Artagnan to understand him with ease. He was asking if d'Artagnan was a French soldier.

d'Artagnan looked away for a second, trying to steady his ragged breathing. Then he met the man's eyes with renewed determination and nodded, slowly. Yes, he was a soldier and he would not deny it.

The words of the searchers crystallised in his ears _. "¡Busca el fugitivo! ¡Debe estar por aqu_ _í_ _! ¡No perderlo!"_ The commands were to keep looking for the fugitive and the shouts were getting closer _._ He heard hoof-beats approaching, then his heart lurched as a horse's ears appeared over the yard wall and then the head of the rider as he leaned over to address the villager. "¿ _Ha visto a un extra_ _ñ_ _o_?"

d'Artagnan couldn't work out why the soldier asking if the village had seen a stranger, given that he was holding d'Artagnan prisoner at gunpoint in his yard. But the villager was turning, taking a step to the right, his pistol dropping to his side where the rider couldn't see it. d'Artagnan suddenly realised that where he lay under the lee of the half-roof which sheltered part of the yard from the elements, he might not be visible to the rider. The flicker of hope rose again in his stomach and he held his breath.

" _No he visto nada por aqu_ _í_ _."_ The villager answered in Spanish – "I haven't seen anything here" – and the rider nodded and moved off, shouting orders as he went. " _Nada por aqu_ _í._ _¡_ _Buscan más allá!"_

The sounds of searching faded a little as they followed his order to search further over, and d'Artagnan was left feeling stunned, and shaky with adrenaline, propped up on his elbows on the straw-strewn yard, his mouth slightly open as he stared at his – defender?

The man turned back to him, tucking his pistol in his belt, then moved past him as if to go back into his house as if nothing more needed to be said.

"¿ _Senyor, què...?"_ Words failed him for a moment, in Gascon, Spanish or any other language. In the end all he could think of was a simple: "¿ _Per què_ _?"-_ Why?

The man hesitated, then turned back to him. "¿ _Quants anys tens_?" he asked.

d'Artagnan had to stop and think for a second; he'd turned 21 just after they'd left Paris, a couple of months ago, but the date had passed unnoticed by Porthos and Athos and uncelebrated by him: birthdays seemed rather irrelevant these days. _"_ _Vint-i-u_ _."_

The man looked at him a moment, then held out a hand. Hesitantly d'Artagnan met it with his own, and found it gripped strongly as the man hauled him to his feet.

" _El meu fill és vint. Ell és un soldat en l'exèrcit espanyol."_ My own son is twenty; he's a soldier in the Spanish army.He spoke the words in a level voice but as d'Artagnan's eyes searched his face he could see the raw emotion on his face as clearly as if he'd known him all his life. A father's pride and fear for a young son, away fighting with an army that was almost foreign to your family's own heritage, was unmistakable in any language.

Slowly d'Artagnan nodded his understanding and his thanks. The man released his hand and indicated he should stay there. Disappearing through his doorway he reappeared a moment later holding a well cared-for, oiled leather water-bottle which he handed to d'Artagnan, then impassively pointed towards the north western wall of the yard before stepping back into his house, shutting the door firmly and vanishing into the shadows inside.

d'Artagnan tipped his face to the heavens for a moment, letting the cool night breeze bathe his sweating face. The whole encounter had taken only a few minutes but he felt a lifetime older as he stood, stiffly, and raised a hand in thanks to the man he guessed would be watching from within, before walking to the wall, peering over cautiously, then vaulting over it and dropping silently to the ground beyond.

He was in luck – again. The sounds of the search party had faded and the men seemed to be concentrating now on the other side of the village from where he'd first entered it. Quickly he loped along the pathway in the direction suggested by his unexpected rescuer, keeping to the shadows close to the houses. Within moments he'd reached the last house and found himself in a small orchard. Flitting swiftly from tree to tree, he didn't pause until he'd reached the slopes on the far side of the valley where he paused to investigate the bottle. As he'd hoped, it contained fresh water and he drank deeply and gratefully. He allowed himself a moment of wonder at the encounter. Then, pushing it firmly to one side, he checked across the valley to make sure the soldiers were still searching in the wrong direction, and forced his weary legs to start running again.

* * *

 _Thank you Google for your help with the Catalan phrases. I think the villager would be speaking Aranese but I am sure they would have understood each other. Apologies if I've mangled it, or the Spanish phrases, too much, but I love playing with other languages as it adds another note to the story, like spice in a stew, so thank you for indulging me and I hope it all flowed ok._

 _Hmm... it was quite a short chapter, wasn't it? Shall I see what I can do about that? ;)_


	6. Chapter 6: Just Don't Give Up

_There, weekend treat, two chapters in one night. Enjoy!_

 **Chapter 6: Just Don't Give Up**

 _Serra del Catllaras, northern Spain, 9pm_

There was a faint drip of water in the crack in the cliffs where Porthos was wedged, which was driving him mad. He couldn't work out where it was coming from but it was distracting him from listening. And listening was pretty much the only thing he could usefully do right now.

He had rested for a long while after d'Artagnan had left, concentrating on pushing the pain down deep, tucking it away in his belly, driving it from his conscious mind by sheer force of will. He was no stranger to pain, and knew how to deal with it, how to wrap it up, corral it, giving it only the space in his mind that he allowed it. If pain were a creature it would be like a mountain lion, he thought, loose in a marketplace full of innocent children and laughing women, their flesh vulnerable to the slash of claws and snap of teeth. His job was to drive it into a corner, glare at it, roar at it, until it was subdued – still there, still dangerous, but contained, separate. Under control.

Once he felt able to face it without fear of swooning like a corseted maiden, he checked the wound on his leg, cautiously peeling back the bandages and lifting a corner of the wadding below. It was stained with red on the underside, but no blood had yet seeped through to the top of the wadding and he thought the stitches would hold. He replaced the bandage and pulled it firm, feeling reassured.

His thoughts turned to d'Artagnan. This trip had been an eye-opener for Porthos. On the way south from Paris he'd watched as the young Musketeer, commissioned barely a year earlier, had lapped up every fireside tale with wide eyes. He'd seen him contain his trepidation as they neared the front, masking it by joking with the other young Musketeers and teasing the older ones where he could get away with it without censure. Once encamped, d'Artagnan had kept himself busy and out of trouble, always finding a job to do beyond whatever he'd been tasked with.

He'd noticed him throw up discretely behind a bush before their first battle, long limbs trembling with nerves, but once the brief fight started his training and experience had kicked in and he'd acquitted himself well.

That first encounter seemed to have settled him, and he'd stood taller around the camp afterwards. Before their second battle Porthos had watched with a contented smile as d'Artagnan slung an arm around the shoulders of the newly-arrived and white-faced Fouchard, chatting companionably and distracting him from his nerves. That Fouchard was a year or two older than d'Artagnan was clearly irrelevant: he had transferred from the regular army but had less experience of hand-to-hand fighting than d'Artagnan, thanks to the Gascon's close association with the Inseparables. Trouble had seemed to follow the four of them around and, although he'd seen more injuries than any twenty-year-old had any right to, d'Artagnan had bounced back from every one with his usual good humour and infectious optimism. His natural confidence seemed to rub off on Fouchard whose complexion had returned to a more normal shade by the time the call came to mount up.

Fouchard had fought well although Porthos noticed that d'Artagnan was keeping as close an eye on him as Porthos did for the Gascon. Athos, of course, observed everything and had given both youngsters a quiet "well fought" as they returned to the camp, setting Fouchard's cheeks aflame and eliciting a shy smile from d'Artagnan.

Both d'Artagnan and Porthos had fretted at the inaction after that, although Porthos had experienced it in previous campaigns and knew how to deal with it, relying on his trusty cards and the company of good men to keep him entertained. d'Artagnan had struggled, veering from impatience – questioning Athos constantly to find out what was happening, why the delay – to reluctant acceptance, obsessively checking his kit, fussing over his weapons, and constant sparring with anyone who would work with him. He was a bundle of energy, needing an outlet.

When Athos had called for volunteers, it was a toss-up as to which of the pair spoke first. Porthos' initial thought had been to wonder whether Athos had manufactured the mission especially to keep the pair of them out of trouble, but one look at his face during the briefing had told Porthos just how important the mission was.

Until tonight, the hardest part of their assignment had been the weariness from the constant vigilance, the hours in the saddle, snatching an hour of light sleep here and there. Nothing else really bothered him. He loved to feel clean but he wasn't bothered by the grime from the dusty trails and the lack of a change of clothes; he just put up with it, as he had as a street child in Paris' Court of Miracles. The travel rations, the cold nights, the danger they were in as they travelled, out of uniform, through northern Spain – he'd seen it all more times than he could remember.

No, the revelation had been d'Artagnan.

The lad was the perfect companion. He didn't know why it surprised him: he'd spent enough time with him, always enjoyed his company and had relished seeing him grow in confidence, knowing he was playing a part in shaping the youngster. Maybe it was because he'd never been alone with him on such a perilous mission; he'd always had Aramis or Athos at his back, knowing both of them inside out after all these years. d'Artagnan was ten years younger, inexperienced by comparison – couldn't even grow a proper beard yet – but after the first day Porthos realised he'd forgotten to feel protective, forgotten that this was d'Artagnan's first war zone, his first time behind enemy lines.

He was not as entertaining as Aramis, who could make the longest Palace guard duty flash by when he put his mind to it, inventing stories about the dignitaries they were guarding or coming up with insane challenges like attempted to flick a pebble into the exaggerated curls piled on a consort's head without alerting her. (Aramis won, of course, and Porthos had only escaped punishment thanks to Athos 'accidentally' tripping up a Red Guard to divert attention when Porthos' last pebble hit the courtier on the ear. Porthos had had to pay for Athos' wine for weeks after that.)

Nor was the lad as knowledgeable as Athos, who, when he was in the mood, or bored, could be hugely entertaining on a wide range of subjects: entertaining accounts of historical battles, the best way to smoke fish, why you shouldn't prune apple trees in the spring, and how to hypnotise a chicken were just some of the topics that had entranced Porthos when he first met Athos, giving him a glimpses of life beyond the army or Paris' streets.

But where Porthos had been expecting to miss Aramis' inventiveness or Athos' wisdom, he had found he was content with d'Artagnan's companionship. No, more than content. They moved to the same rhythm, the pair of them. The decision to stop was never debated; one would rein in and look at the other who would nod, and that was it: decided. Who would fetch water, whose job to fetch wood and set a fire, whose turn to sniff out a new mount when needed, was never debated. It just seemed to happen.

Not that they were silent, as travel with Athos could sometimes be when he was distracted by the weight of his responsibilities. Nor was the journey as rambunctious as those with Aramis were wont to be. But they talked, and listened, and joked softly, and grumbled gently when one was tired or weary. d'Artagnan shared his feelings about Constance – his worries for their relationship, leaving so soon after their marriage, and his concern for her left in a Paris which was in turmoil as troops passed through and harvest were diverted from market places to the front. Porthos in turn shared his regret that things hadn't worked out with Alice, and voiced the pain of choosing between life with a woman he'd come to love and the Musketeers who had been his family all his adult life. Each would give the other space to talk; there would be a respectful silence; and then one of them would cuss, or crack a joke, to break the mood, and they would move on with a deeper understanding of each other.

It was, in truth, a precious time, especially once the diplomat had been safely delivered back home. They had both enjoyed the crisp freshness of the high mountain air after the dusty, sultry plains of southern France, and – for the first time since setting out from Paris – Porthos found he could go for hours without actively missing Aramis.

d'Artagnan had mentioned him several times, in reminiscences or sometimes musing about what the medic might be doing and how he was faring in the monastery at Douai. Porthos' reaction to such discussion, when they first left Paris, was to close up, unable to articulate his feelings about Aramis' decision. He knew the others both missed him hugely too, but Athos was distracted by his Captain's responsibilities and all the work that went with keeping his regiment safe, and d'Artagnan was busy taking everything in and finding his feet in this new world of war, and neither seemed to resent Aramis' abandonment of his brothers, even if they regretted it. Porthos couldn't forgive him so readily and definitely wasn't ready to think about Aramis without the feelings of anger and betrayal overwhelming him.

Now, in the calm mountain air, he found he had begun to accept Aramis' decision even if he still didn't understand it. Coming to appreciate d'Artagnan's company more was part of that acceptance, and maybe it was also just time. Or the fact that, no matter his feelings on the matter, there was nothing he could do to change things.

He shifted, carefully. The moon had already moved around and now illuminated the trail immediately below the cave. He had pushed himself more upright as soon as d'Artagnan left, freeing his arms from the blanket the lad had draped around his shoulders before setting off, and checking the weapons, familiarising himself with the pilfered Spanish pistol and laying out shot and powder pouch precisely to hand. Now the air seemed to be leeching all the warmth from his body and he wrapped the blanket more tightly around his body again, shivering a little. Blood loss and mild concussion were contributing to his discomfort, he knew, but mainly it was the cold air, and sitting in a cramped, damp cave. And still that bloody water dripped somewhere out of sight, distracting him from task of listening for a footfall or chink of iron that would alert him to danger.

He shifted again, leaning slightly forwards so he could stick an ear and an eyebrow out of the shadows. His head swam a little, and he bit his lip, mentally glaring at the lion and sending it back into a dark corner of the market place, swishing its tail. Raising his eyes again, he let them rove slowly around the slope below, watching carefully for any hint of movement, a shadow in the wrong place, a dark block of colour where there should only be leached moonlight. Nothing.

Sagging slightly, he rested a shoulder against the rocky wall and sighed. d'Artagnan had been gone for several hours now, he thought. He'd heard a distant commotion minutes after the lad had set off, and had leaned far out into the night air, craning his neck to work out what was happening and where. He thought he'd heard shouts, and definitely gunfire, and for a long time he'd gripped his pistol fiercely, using the pain of his death-grip to stop him from roaring out in frustration at his inability to move, to help, to defend.

Long, long minutes had passed while his heart thundered in his chest and his head swam from the adrenaline rush. But eventually he'd had to relax his grip and settle back. He didn't know if the commotion had involved d'Artagnan but unfortunately it seemed likely, given the timing and the direction. He could only hope and pray that he had escaped unscathed.

For the first time he realised what an enormous task the lad had undertaken, attempting to get back across the border on foot. From his memory of their location he thought they were at least five leagues from their camp, maybe more: not an impossible distance, even in these hills, but in the dark, on foot? After an exhausting two weeks in the saddle, with little food or sleep? Even if he had evaded the patrol he would be hugely vulnerable, and who knew how many other dangers he might encounter. Anything could go wrong. d'Artagnan's map reading and navigational skills were good but Porthos knew only too well how easy it was to go astray, especially under pressure and at night. If he got lost... or picked up by a patrol...

Porthos wondered for a fleeting moment what he would do if d'Artagnan didn't come back. How long would he lie here, waiting? A day? Two? He had a bit of food - d'Artagnan had left him everything they had – but it wasn't much, and the water was already half gone. If his wound stayed closed, could he put weight on it? Perhaps if he found something to use as a crutch... but if he moved off, and then d'Artagnan returned with help to find him gone...

He puffed out a long breath and gave himself a talking to. If the lad had been captured, or even killed, they would have realised he was not the soldier they'd fought here, and would have come back to search for the second man.

d'Artagnan was indomitable. He would be safe. He would be plodding on determined to reach France and get help. He would be back sooner or later, grinning with pride, and Porthos would be here waiting, as he'd promised.


	7. Chapter 7: That's Why I've Got Feet

_Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter but it's been a busy week. Hope you enjoy it!_

 **Chapter 7: That's Why I've Got Feet**

 _Pobla La Lillet to Saltèguet area, 8.30 to 10.30pm_

He ran. He ran through the darkness, through the pain of cramp and the weakness of leaden legs. He picked himself up after every slip. More than once he crashed to the ground, arms flailing, hair flying as he tried to save himself from another fall, but each time he climbed back to his feet, took a second to re-orientate himself, and simply ran on again, forcing his legs to pump faster, stretch further with each stride, thinking only of covering the distance as fast as possible.

He wasn't aware of thinking anything as the hours passed. The only thing in his mind was to keep going; not to weaken, not to let Porthos down. Sometimes his body took over and demanded rest, and he would find he had stopped and was leaning on a tree or a boulder – panting, trembling with effort – but each time he would shake himself, set his jaw and push on again. He would not, could not, give up!

He got past the next major valley and the village of Castellar de n'Hug without further drama, which was just as well as he had by then passed into the state of exhaustion that precedes total collapse. He'd had to stop for cramp in his legs several times, almost sobbing with pain as he gulped water and rubbed frantically at his calves to relax the abused muscles. The throbbing in his ankle had receded to a point where he could ignore it, but he had twice turned the ankle on the uneven ground which immediately sent the pain sky-high again. He fell more times than he could remember, and each time it took him longer to clamber back upright and get going again. It was only by an act of willpower that he was still on his feet, sheer determination keeping him going long past the time when his body was ready to give up.

He barely noticed when the ground started to level out a little, as the mountains gave way to hills and he left the granite peaks and deep gorges behind. He stopped at the top of one particularly long and gruelling incline, and paused for a moment to catch his breath, bent double, hands on his knees. Then he looked up to orientate himself, and realised that the view had opened up before him for the first time since he'd set off. Hardly daring to hope, he pulled the map from his pocket with fingers that trembled with exhaustion, and held it up to the moonlight. Wiping sweat from his eyes he squinted at the landscape ahead, spotting the silver streak of a river running through the far side of the plain. That had to be it: the Torrent de Saltèguet, the river that marked the current boundary between Spain and France!

He thought he must still have a couple of leagues to go before he reached the border, but he could be there in less than an hour! He had no idea of the time – he thought he'd been running for about 3 hours although it felt like much longer – but he needed to be there by midnight to stand any chance of getting back to Porthos by dawn. He checked the map again carefully to make sure of his route then stuffed it back in his pocket and set off on legs that didn't seem quite so tired any more.

Ten minutes later he had revised his opinion of how weary his legs were. It was almost harder going downhill than uphill, when your muscles were so drained that they could barely support your weight. At times his body was going faster than his legs could manage and then the inevitable would happen. On the third occasion he couldn't even get his hands out to save himself and hit the ground face first. Hauling himself to his feet yet again he crouched for a moment, warm blood dripping down his cheek, and felt ridiculously like crying. Instead he took a moment to drink from the water bottle, conjured up an image of Porthos in his cave, swiped impatiently at the blood, and set off again.

After another half hour ( _keep running ... just keep running)_ he had passed through several fields of maize, startled one flock of sheep and waded through several small streams – tributaries of the river he was aiming for. Working his way through another orchard – pausing to pinch and guzzle a juicy peach from a convenient branch – he hauled himself over the orchard wall and dropped down onto a wide pathway. Cautiously now – aware that he could be very close to the border – he slowed to a steady walk and constantly checked over his shoulder.

Alert to every sound he was quick to leave the path when he heard the faint noise of conversation coming from in front of him. He flitted across to an olive tree and stood for a while, listening intently. The voices were sporadic and seemed to be stationary so he suspected they came from a camp or guard post. He couldn't make out any words but the rapid, staccato cadence definitely sounded Spanish.

He waited for a few moments, hoping the voices would move off, but now he was so close he felt a rising sense of urgency: the need to get back to Porthos and make sure he was still alive was drowning out all other thoughts in his head. Staying off the path, he started to work his way past the voices, pausing frequently to listen. The moon had temporarily disappeared behind clouds so he peered through the darkness ahead, hoping to spot a recognisable landmark.

He could hear the sound of the river faintly, although he couldn't yet see it, but there was a line of bushes which he thought might mark its path. Deciding to give the guards a wide berth by heading further east, he set off then stopped, squinting. What was that? The moon had appeared for a second or two and highlighted something gleaming in the shadows about three hundred paces ahead. He couldn't work it out until he realised he was looking down on what appeared to be a... bloody hell! It was!

Now that he had the perspective he could make out more details, and sounds were also cutting through the background noise of wind and river. A shuffle of feet, a chink of armour. The jingle of a horse's bit. Low level conversation, an occasional laugh, quickly shushed.

He edged forward, all his senses on the alert now. After fifty paces his nerves couldn't take it anymore and he dropped to his stomach, wincing as every muscle protested, but doggedly starting to crawl forward across the stony ground. His eyes constantly raked the scene before him, which was rapidly becoming clear: an encampment. An encampment that looked worryingly large and included at least two gleaming cannons – the first thing he had spotted catching the moonlight.

Where was he? He didn't dare to pull the map out, knowing it would rustle in the wind. He crabbed sideways to get a better view of the camp and suddenly noticed the dark bulk of a bridge reaching out across the river that was now visible between the trees ahead.

Mentally checking his memory, he was pretty sure that must be the bridge he had been aiming for. Crossing places in this region were few and far between – one of the reasons the Musketeers had been sent to set up camp nearby and be ready to push across, if ordered. Unless he'd gone seriously wrong in the last few hours this was the only bridge around. That meant he was within hailing distance of his own camp! There was just the small matter of this unexpected Spanish encampment to get past.

He knew, from crossing it before, that the bridge spanned a section of river that had cut its way deep into the valley floor. The embankment either side was rocky and steep, with only a few animal paths breaching its sides. The Spanish were camped within a few hundred paces of the bridge, hidden by a fold of hillside, but no doubt they had it guarded. The French camp was a ten-minute walk away from the river, out of sight of the bridge. There would be no help from the other side, and he couldn't risk crossing the bridge and running into guards or being spotted by a restless soldier. He would have to swim across.

He crawled carefully away from his view point, still heading east. He would have to work his way around the camp. If he carried on west, he would enter the river upstream of the bridge, and risk being spotted if he drifted too far downstream before being able to get out.

At first he made good progress, moving quietly down the sloping curve of the easterly hill using small bushes as cover. But after a few hundred feet the ground levelled out and the bushes turned to scrubby grass. He might still have risked this route, were it not for the two pairs of guards patrolling slowly along a pathway between the hill and the river. With no more cover, and the moon stubbornly free of clouds, he would be spotted as soon as he tried to cross the open space. Gritting his teeth in frustration he considered his options. He could wait and hope to get past the guards if they were distracted – but that might never happen, or not for hours. He could back track and work his way around the back of the hills – but that could add another half an hour's delay before he could get back to this camp and raise help for Porthos. He scowled in the darkness, peering around hoping for a miracle. There was no bloody cover anywhere! All he could see was bare ground to right and left, and a forest of enemy tents in front of him!

He stilled, suddenly. Could he...? No, that was madness. He should play it safe and work around. It might delay him but at least he would be sure of getting help. No point in taking risks now. Reluctantly, decision made, he turned away from the camp to retrace his steps until he could find a safe path around the hills, cursing at the thought of the extra distance he would have to cover.

Once back on the path he had only gone fifty paces before he heard voices approaching from the top of the rise. Frantically he looked around for cover but he was out of luck: the nearest trees were in the same area that the voices were coming from. He could head back to the scrub near the patrolling guards but the voices sounded close and he wasn't sure he could make it without being seen. Think! Out of ideas, out of time, out of options, he turned quickly and set off in a crouching run towards the camp, hoping to find an empty tent or stack of equipment where he could take cover until the newcomers had passed.

He risked a glance over his shoulder and cursed: three heads were visible as the newcomers breasted the hill and started down the path towards him. _Merde_! The nearest tents were still twenty paces ahead of him and if the patrol, or whatever they were, spotted him acting suspiciously a single shout would surely bring scores of Spaniards running...

With a supreme effort of will, he forced himself to straighten and walk, not run, towards the tents. If the patrol was looking his way, they would see a man wandering casually towards his bed... no one would expect a Frenchman to be sauntering around their camp. Because that would be madness!

He reached the nearest tent and paused, bending to fiddle with his boot and glance under his shoulder behind him. The patrol was closer now and he could clearly make out their voices. One raised an arm to point and his heart stuttered for a second before he saw the hand wave expansively from side to side as if the owner was describing the scene. Maybe they were discussing tactics for storming the French camp – or did they even know the Musketeers were nearby? If not, that made it all the more important that he evaded detection.

With a calmness that he definitely wasn't feeling, he straightened and walked slowly around the tent, heart hammering as his eyes shot from right to left looking for any movement, expecting a shout of discovery at every step he took.

Someone somewhere loved him, he thought irreverently, as he rounded the tent without incident and was, momentarily, out of sight of the three heading into camp. Now which way though? He was just deciding to lurk here, keeping the tent between him and the three Spaniards, when the fabric of the next tent in the row rustled and a hand appeared in the flap, undoing the rope fastening.

With no time to think, d'Artagnan spun on his heel and walked further into the centre of the camp. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure emerge from the tent, glance at him then head in the opposite direction. But ahead of him lay the main camp fire, which still had men around it even at this time of night. He couldn't risk getting too close to the firelight which would allow him to be recognised as a stranger.

He glanced behind him. The three men coming into camp had paused to talk, but were still within sight of him if they looked his way. The river was to his right, and he desperately wanted to head that way but first he would have to cross a large open area containing the camp fire. The only cover was provided by the two cannons and a stack of barrels and crates. Imperceptibly, he hoped, he changed course to head towards the pile of supplies, hoping they would obscure his movements to some extent from any observers around the fire.

Twenty heart-stopping steps later he reached the centre and the two gleaming field guns without discovery. Glancing quickly around he judged it safe to drop to the ground which he did with some relief; to his shame he found his legs were shaking with what Aramis would call adrenaline, but he knew was fear. Thought of his far-off brother made him smile for a second; Aramis would have loved this adventure. He would be thinking of ways to glorify it in the recounting – "stalking the tents, stealing weapons from the sleeping enemy..." Oh yes, he would find a hundred ways to embellish the tale, conveniently ignoring the fact that he – or in this case d'Artagnan – had stumbled into the camp accidently, to avoid being spotted by a patrol.

Hmm. Talking of weapons... d'Artagnan was crouching beside one of the field guns, hoping its bulk would mask his shape from any casual eyes while he tried to regain control of his shaking limbs. Thoughts of Aramis had planted an idea in his mind. He knew there were ways of spiking cannon – hammering a spike into the touch hole near the breech, for example, so the fuse couldn't be lit until the spike was removed. However to do that properly would take a lot of hammering. Even this seemingly oblivious camp of Spaniards would surely notice the noise – always assuming he could find a mallet, and a suitable spike of metal.

He glanced along the barrel of the cannon, and saw it was aimed at the far side of the bridge. He shivered, picturing the carnage it would cause if it were fired into the ranks of Musketeers in the morning. Think! What could he do to render it useless?

A burst of laughter from the fire had him looking around nervously. No one seemed to be looking his way, but he couldn't linger any longer. He was pushing his luck already, and the most important thing at the moment was to get back to camp, raise help for Porthos, and warn Athos of the presence of the Spanish camp. Taking in a deep breath he checked towards the river, wondering whether to carry on across the open centre of the camp – in full view of those at the campfire and of the guards at the entrance to the bridge, if they looked behind – or head back towards the cover of the tents nearest the riverside. He could use the water barrels just beyond the cannon for cover to start with... Ah.

He almost laughed at the simplicity of the idea that popped into his head. Not giving himself time to change his mind, he took his dagger and used it to pry off the lid of the barrel of gunpowder that stood behind the first cannon. The lid came off with a small creak as wood splintered around the nails fastening it, and he froze, expecting to hear a shout of alarm, but the noise must have been quieter than he feared. Counting to ten in his head just to be sure, he crept towards the second cannon and the other barrel of powder. That lid came off more easily.

Taking another deep breath he stood and walked casually towards the nearest water barrel, presumably placed near the cannon for safety in case of misfires. He reached for the water bottle given to him so many leagues ago by his Spanish guardian, and took the cap off, plunging it into the barrel and filling it quickly. Turning, he checked again; there was movement around the tents and he could see several soldiers emerging, straightening jackets and checking weapons: it looked like a change of guard was due. For a second he hesitated, but there was little to gain in giving up on his plan; either way he was stranded in the middle of a hostile camp. If he was going to be discovered, he might as well go down in a blaze of glory. Stifling the fear that he would simply be cut down and the Musketeers would never find his body, he walked steadily back towards the cannon, scanning all around him for signs of anyone watching him.

He dropped to one knee and unscrewed the lid of the water bottle, quickly tipping the contents into the gunpowder then stirring it cautiously with the tip of his blade to make sure the water sank right through. Then he fitted the lid roughly back in place. With any luck no one would notice the damp powder until they went to try to use it. He rose, and walked more confidently back towards the water barrels to collect water for the other barrel of powder – to see, with a lurch of adrenaline, another figure already standing there. His steps faltered, but then he forced himself to continue: the man had already seen him approaching, though he could not have noticed him rising from the cannon or he would surely already have challenged him.

Stopping at the nearest barrel, he brought up his water bottle to fill it, at the same time catching the other man's eye and nodding at him in a casual way. The man lowered the scoop he'd been drinking from and grunted at him. Then he turned and wandered off towards the tents.

d'Artagnan let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. How much more luck could he have, tonight? He hurried back to the cannons, and poured water into the second barrel, replacing the lid, hanging the bottle carrier back on his belt then turning to head for the tents, adrenaline thundering in his ears all the while. He'd been here too long and couldn't quite believe he hadn't been spotted ...

 _Merde_! His luck finally seemed to have run out. A sharp command from the nearest row of tents had him looking around, to find a man looking directly at him. The man called out again, and d'Artagnan was aware of the voices from the men around the campfire stilling to listen. d'Artagnan stepped over a crate nestling in the grass in front of the second cannon then paused to scoop it up, turning to the man who was watching him suspiciously, and raising the crate as if to explain why he was there.

It seemed to work. He walked briskly towards the tents, skirting the water barrels, and risked a last glance over his shoulder as he reached the nearest tent. The man had turned away, apparently satisfied. d'Artagnan rounded the first tent – and ran straight into a man coming out of it!

D'Artagnan had a split second to see the man's mouth open in surprise at the sight of the stranger in his camp. No, _no_ , NO, he couldn't be discovered now! He slammed the crate into the man's face, felling him instantly and effectively stopping any shout of alarm he might have made. D'Artagnan staggered sideways from the force of the blow he'd landed, feet scrambling to keep his balance, and then dropped the crate as he saw the man start to roll to his hands and knees, clutching his jaw. Snatching his main gauche from his belt, he dropped to his knees and drove the blade into the man's neck, rolling quickly to the side to avoid the gush of arterial blood that erupted.

Scrambling to his feet he cringed for a moment, hearing the man gurgling for breath and clawing at the gaping hole in his throat. Then he spotted the epaulettes that marked the man as an officer, and hardened his heart.

Quickly he grabbed the crate again, hoping the same trick would serve him if he was spotted again, and moved off as fast as possible without actually running. Behind him now he could hear raised voices and knew his time was nearly up. Flinging caution to the winds, he veered away from the tents, and belted towards the path skirting the river bank, pumping his legs in a frantic bid to reach the sanctuary of the water. Ten paces... five... then his next step was into the air and he was plummeting downwards again, thinking that three times in one night was surely enough, and then his feet hit the water sending a shock up his body; the crate jammed into his stomach; and water filled his vision.

He kicked frantically for the surface, finally remembering to let go of the crate as his head broke the surface. Coughing and thrashing with his arms he nearly swallowed a lump of cloth. Spitting and gasping for air he trod water, looking wildly around. He was already well downstream of the bridge and could see nothing but water bounded by rock rising sheer above him. Another wad of hemp floated past him and he blinked – where was it coming from? And then he laughed, or would have, if he hadn't inhaled another lungful of water instead of air. Coughing and spluttering, he gathered his wits and started to swim toward the bank, through the floating lumps of wadding and cordage that had erupted from the crate as it burst on impact with the water – or with his ribs, one or the other. Luck, again, had blessed him, it seemed: the crate that had given him a temporary alibi, then helped him take out a Spanish captain, had contained the wadding and fuses for the cannon, which were now floating past him and heading serenely for the Mediterranean sea.

It took him several minutes of spluttering and feeble strokes as he doggedly slogged his way across the river, and he knew he'd travelled quite a distance downstream before he'd made it to the opposite bluff and found a place where he could clamber out.

Gratefully he hauled himself out and lay, legs still in the water, heart pounding, until his breathing had settled enough for him to cough up all the water he'd swallowed. Then, starting to shiver in the cool night air, he dragged himself to his feet and headed determinedly up to the pathway at the top, which he recognised led straight to the Musketeers' camp.

* * *

 _There, no cliffie again - aren't I being kind to you all!_


	8. Chapter 8: Call to the Soldiers II

_Thank you again to everyone who has reviewed, or is following and favouriting. I write to get the stories out of my head, but it takes courage to post them so your support makes it all worthwhile. There's a little respite, for us and d'Artagnan, in this chapter; we're kind of back to the beginning but this time from d'Artagnan's point of view. I hope you enjoy!_

 **Chapter 8: Call to the Soldiers II**

 _Musketeer camp, 11pm_

d'Artagnan crested the hill sheltering the French camp and felt a huge sense of relief as he looked down on the welcome familiarity of the Musketeers' base: two rows of tents each housing three or four men; a straight aisle between the rows wide enough for four horses to walk abreast; the larger mess tent at the far end with the medical tent off to one side, under the shade of the few trees in the glen. Smaller store tents, water barrels and woodpile near the mess tent. Horse lines to the left, and the oh-so-welcome sight of Athos' command tent near the middle of the camp.

Feeling a renewed burst of energy he started running down the steep track into camp, wondering what time it was, whether Athos was onsite or had been called away to a meeting, planning what he needed to say and what they would need to take with them, hoping he could set off again quickly, maybe even within 10 minutes or so... and remembering, _far_ too late, as he skidded and slid his way to the bottom of the gravelly track, that he needed to announce himself to the guard or he might just get shot.

"Don't shoot!" he called out quickly, trying to slow himself down and spot the guard at the same time. How stupid, how incredibly stupid, if he were to get himself shot now after everything he'd been through tonight! He nearly lost his footing on the loose gravel and cursed as his feet skidded, having to flail his arms to keep his balance. As he stumbled, he heard someone demand the password. Password? He didn't have a clue. Couldn't remember what it had been when they'd left camp two weeks ago: some kind of cheese, perhaps – Camembert? Roquefort? – but no doubt it had been changed since then.

"Dammit, I can't remember the bloody password!" he yelled, finally coming to a halt and squinting to see where the guard was in the dappled moonlit glade. There was a hesitation then the guard tentatively asked his name. d'Artagnan thought it sounded like one of the new recruits, Fouchard. He started running towards him, calling out to him and asking where Athos was. The man didn't lower his musket but d'Artagnan could see him wavering so he simply pushed the barrel to one side and waited for an answer, making a mental note to tell Athos that the new recruits needed to be more assertive if they were to be entrusted with solo guard duty. He liked Fouchard but if d'Artagnan had been an enemy, the youngster would have been dead by now.

Entering Athos' tent at a run, d'Artagnan had time to inhale the familiar scent of oiled leather, mouldy canvas, sweaty boots and red wine. After so long in the crisp mountain air of the borderlands, it hit him viscerally and his throat constricted. It smelled like home.

One stride took him to the map table just inside the small tent, beyond which was Athos' bed on which the man himself had been lying fully dressed, apart from doublet and boots. His tired face was lit by a single candle on the trunk next to his pillow, and a book lay open on his chest. As d'Artagnan burst in Athos was already rising, instantly alert, reaching for his pistol at the sudden intrusion; but his face broke into a smile as he recognised d'Artagnan in the stuttering light. He reached d'Artagnan and enveloped him in a hug before d'Artagnan could utter a word.

d'Artagnan found himself leaning into the unexpected hug, suddenly aware that he was wet, sweaty, out of breath and trembling from the exertion of the past few hours. He felt a warm hand grasp the back of his neck and a gentle slap on his back, before Athos pulled away and held him at arms' length, subjecting him to a rapid inspection. d'Artagnan tried to straighten his shoulders but winced as the movement pulled on the deep grazes on his back.

"Sit," instructed Athos immediately, pushing him into the chair by the map table, then raised his voice to instruct Fouchard to fetch Etienne. d'Artagnan went to object, but found he didn't have the energy. Instead he shut his gritty eyes for a moment, trying to adjust to being around people again after so long out in the hills. Then he remembered Porthos waiting patiently in those hills and took a breath to report, but dissolved into a coughing fit as soon as he started.

The next few minutes passed in a blur as Athos passed him water, and Etienne arrived and started to fuss over him as he tried to explain succinctly what had happened and what needed to be done, aware of Athos' eyes watching him and no doubt spotting every cut and graze evident on his body. Now he'd stopped moving he was already stiffening up and was starting to feel every bruise and scrape. His ankle was hot and throbbing, his ribs and hip felt bruised and sore, he couldn't bend his left wrist, and his back was stinging where sweat trickled into the torn skin.

He was glad it was dark in the tent and Athos had let him push Etienne away. By then he was squinting at the map trying to explain to Athos where he'd left Porthos, and the realisation that he couldn't definitely pinpoint the location hit him hard. Porthos wouldn't stand a chance unless d'Artagnan was fit enough to lead the way back to the fissure in the rock face where he languished.

Athos missed nothing. d'Artagnan's clothes were ripped and scratched, so he was likely to be carrying other injuries underneath. He saw the way d'Artagnan was guarding his left arm, cradling it in his lap, and the way he constantly shifted uncomfortably on the chair. He watched the doubt cross d'Artagnan's sweaty, blood-streaked face; saw the moment of anguish as he struggled to identify Porthos' location. The lad's sense of urgency mirrored his own but he was torn: d'Artagnan didn't look fit to stand, let alone return - but without him they might not find Porthos in time.

Making up his mind, he shouted again for Fouchard, trusting that the young Musketeer would still be hovering outside. When the nervous young Musketeer appeared in the doorway, he told him tersely to have five men and eight horses ready in ten minutes, then gestured to d'Artagnan to continue with his report.

"Fouchard, wait! We'll only need three horses. Make sure they're fresh – and we need medical supplies; lots of bandages," called d'Artagnan over his shoulder, glancing apologetically up at Athos. The latter's nostrils flared but he said nothing, merely cocking an eyebrow. "Sorry, Captain." It was unusual for d'Artagnan to use his rank, at least in private; it was both acknowledgement and apology for countermanding Athos' order.

"I patched him up and left him safe, and he should be able to ride if the stitches hold, but we'll need to travel swiftly and keep out of sight. There were more patrols in the area than we expected so it would be best just with the two of us."

Athos frowned. Two men to retrieve a badly wounded comrade from deep in Spanish territory?

d'Artagnan saw his doubt and rallied more words. "Athos, please, just trust me. It will be quicker with just two of us, and we're more likely to evade detection. But Athos, we can't delay, we must go, _now_ , or we'll never get him back across the border before dawn!"

The last words came out in a rush and d'Artagnan shut his eyes for a second. Athos couldn't tell if he was in pain or if he feared Athos' anger at leaving one of their own behind. Perhaps both. He reached out to grasp d'Artagnan by the shoulder, squeezing gently. "If necessary we can rest up with him during the day and complete the journey tomorrow night..."

"No! You don't understand!" interrupted d'Artagnan. "I haven't told you the worst bit yet."

Worse than Porthos lying bleeding in a cave on a Spanish hillside, alone, with Spanish patrols all around? "Go on," he encouraged softly.

"There's a whole regiment of Spaniards camped on the other side of the river. With field guns - two cannon. I'm guessing that's where all the patrols we ran into were headed, and it looks as if they are gearing up to attack across the bridge, possibly in the morning." He watched as Athos shoved himself to his feet abruptly and strode to the tent flap, flinging it open and yelling for Jumot, _now!_

Cursing under his breath Athos turned back, rapidly fastening his doublet. "Anything else?" he asked d'Artagnan tersely.

"Um... I found a place to cross downriver where the banks aren't too steep. We'll have to swim the horses across..."

He stopped as Jumot finally arrived in the doorway looking dishevelled and sleepy. "Sorry, Captain, I'd only come off duty an hour ago so I was sound asleep," he started to apologise, then ground to a halt at the look on Athos' face. d'Artagnan felt sorry for him as he struggled to keep up with Athos' rapid summary of the situation, but as he listened he realised Athos had already formulated a plan. He was issuing instructions to post lookouts this side of the river and to send a runner to the General's command post a few leagues north of their camp, asking for reinforcements. It sounded like Athos was still planning to get Porthos out in spite of the new threat posed by the news of the encampment.

Breathing a sigh of relief, d'Artagnan was suddenly aware just how much the run had taken out of him. It seemed almost too much effort to sit in the chair and he found his eyes trying to close of their own accord as Athos rolled up the map and dismissed Jumot.

Suddenly noticing the silence, d'Artagnan realised his eyes had indeed closed. Jerking his head up, he found Athos standing looking down at him with an unfathomable expression in his eyes.

"What?" d'Artagnan asked, inelegantly.

Athos visibly hesitated, then crouched in front of d'Artagnan. "I'm wondering whether you're in any condition to make the journey back to find Porthos. And whether I should stay here and organise our defences, instead of going charging off to rescue him, with or without you."

d'Artagnan blinked at the unexpectedly frank response from his Captain. Then he mustered a determined smile from deep in his boots. "The Spanish won't attack at night. Maybe not even tomorrow; there were new soldiers arriving all the time so maybe they haven't finished assembling yet. And besides, if you come with me, you'll be gathering valuable information about their camp and resources. By the time our reinforcements get here in the morning we'll be back with Porthos, and with a better idea of what we're facing."

Athos tilted his head, an almost-smile quirking his lips at the neat way the Gascon had understood his dilemma and rapidly produced several convincing arguments for why Athos should go with him. They looked at each other for a moment, Athos' calm green eyes scanning d'Artagnan minutely. "And the other question? Are you fit to travel?"

d'Artagnan looked away, then met Athos' gaze again. "Not terribly fit, and I don't think I could run it again, but I can do it on horseback. And we don't have an alternative. You need me to find Porthos, and once the Spanish attack we won't be able to get across. We have to go – now."

Athos nodded then frowned as he noticed the small tremors coursing through the Gascon's sodden frame. He stood and rummaged through the trunk at the end of his bed, pulling out a spare shirt and trousers, but d'Artagnan shook his head.

"No point; we're going to get wet crossing the river again in a minute."

Athos looked at him. He had plenty more questions chasing around his brain but they could wait; the longer d'Artagnan spoke, the plainer was his agitation and anxiety to get the rescue under way. But there was one gaping hole in his understanding. "You said you lost the horses in the attack?"

"Yes, mine was shot from under me and Porthos dismounted or was pulled off – I didn't see his mount when I ... got back to the path so I assume the raiders took it."

Every word he spoke raised more questions. ' _Got back to the path'?_ But he had no time to question further: they were interrupted by a rustling at the tent flap as Etienne came in, handing d'Artagnan a well-stuffed saddlebag, no doubt containing the medical supplies he'd requested. "Horses are ready," he reported. d'Artagnan started to lever himself stiffly to his feet but Etienne tutted and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Your arm?" he asked, pointedly.

d'Artagnan hesitated. It _was_ sore... "It's just my wrist. If you can strap it really quickly... and maybe my foot too?" He proffered his arm for inspection then shifted uncomfortably as Etienne prodded it, then started strapping it deftly, at the same time asking how the injury had happened.

d'Artagnan looked at him blankly. "I fell on it."

"Well obviously, but... oh, never mind." Etienne tied off the bandage firmly. D'Artagnan turned back to Athos, to find his Captain was giving him a sharp look.

"What's wrong with your foot?"

"My horse fell and rolled on it." d'Artagnan decided now was not the time to explain that this had happened after a 100 foot slide into a ravine.

Athos kneeled. He didn't need to ask which foot – it was obvious, now d'Artagnan had mentioned it; he had it resting gingerly on top of his other boot, and the leather was deeply scratched and even torn in one place. Athos began working the boot off, stopping when he heard a hissed intake of breath.

He looked up to find Etienne scrutinising d'Artagnan anxiously. The young Musketeer had his eyes shut. "Keep going," he said tersely.

Athos tried again, now with Etienne holding d'Artagnan's knee to minimise the twisting; this time the boot came off. D'Artagnan exhaled in relief and opened his eyes. "That wasn't too bad," he said, in obvious relief. Athos and Etienne however were both staring at his foot where a patch of purple flesh over his ankle bone was puffing up even as they watched, now it was released from the constricting leather.

D'Artagnan grabbed a bandage and handed it to Etienne. "Strap it up before it swells too much, otherwise I'll never get the boot back on – yeow!" he finished on a yelp as Etienne took hold of his foot and started manipulating it.

"Is it broken?" asked Athos, tersely.

"Um... hard to say."

"Well, say! He can't go back into Spain with a broken ankle."

"HE is right here, and it's just sprained," interrupted d'Artagnan grumpily. "How do you think I got back here if it was broken? Just strap it up and do it quickly, we're wasting time!"

Athos scowled, knowing it made sense but still suspicious. "Do it _properly_ , not quickly. Then we'll see," he ordered. "I'm going to check on Jumot."

Etienne strapped the ankle firmly, ignoring d'Artagnan's grimaces. As he reached for the boot to put it back on, d'Artagnan took a last swig from the water bottle then tipped the remaining water decisively over his bandaged foot. Etienne looked at him as if he was mad. D'Artagnan shrugged. "Cold is good for sprains," he said, nonchalantly.

Etienne shook his head in despair, but eased d'Artagnan's boot back on with care, for which d'Artagnan gave him a nod of thanks before levering himself upright with a stifled groan. Etienne reached out to help him but d'Artagnan shook his head. "I've just stiffened up; I'll be fine when we get going."

The medic grumbled to himself knowing he stood no chance of stopping d'Artagnan from leaving again no matter how much pain he was in. How did Aramis cope with these stubborn men? he wondered as he gathered everything back into his medical pack to leave the Captain's tent tidy, and followed the obdurate Gascon out, trying not to notice how stiffly he was moving.

d'Artagnan found Fouchard waiting outside with three familiar horses. Both he and Porthos had deliberately left their own horses behind when they set out on the mission, knowing they would have to change horses if the journey proved too tiring for one mount without rest. Now he hesitated, thinking about the mare who had died that night and wondering whether to ask Fouchard to bring him an alternative mount. But he knew the journey would be easier his own horse, so he firmly dismissed the thought that he might lose Nuit as well, and took her reins with a nod of thanks to Fouchard. Seeing that Athos was not yet in sight, he led Nuit over to a stack of supply crates and used them as a mounting block, knowing his ankle might protest at taking his entire weight if he mounted from the ground. Settling himself quickly and patting her neck, he turned her to find Athos approaching him alongside Jumot, the lieutenant he was leaving in charge of the camp. Athos was issuing a stream of last minute instructions to Jumot but d'Artagnan sighed as he realised Athos would have spotted d'Artagnan's reticence to mount from the ground.

Sure enough, as he mounted Roger and took Flip's reins from Fouchard with his own nod of thanks, Athos looked at d'Artagnan and checked: "Sure you're fit enough to do this?"

d'Artagnan raised a smile and squeezed Nuit into a trot. "I'm sure," he called over his shoulder, heading for the path back up to the river and pushing her quickly into a canter.

They turned left at the top of the path, carrying on along the river bank until they reached a small copse where d'Artagnan halted to look for signs of the Spanish camp.

It was not a reassuring sight. From here they could see the gap between two hills where the path emerged onto the bridge, and clearly visible in the dark were a series of camp fires disappearing behind the two hills that sheltered the camp.

Athos swore softly. "How many men did you think?"

"I'm not sure. There were a lot of tents but most of them seemed to be asleep when I passed through. All I can say is – more than 50, less than 100. Maybe."

Athos nodded, absently. "I've told Jumot to get patrols up here straight away, and station a unit here by dawn in case they attack. My God: why now!"

d'Artagnan looked at his tense face and his heart sank. Athos should be here, mustering their forces and planning their tactics – not racing into Spain to rescue one single man, no matter how precious that man was. "Athos, I could ..."

"No. Let's go," Athos cut across him before he'd even formulated his suggestion.

d'Artagnan looked at him. "I didn't even finish..."

"You forget: I know you, and the answer's no. You gave me good reasons to lay before the General when we get back, but meanwhile, they can manage with me - without us - for a few hours. Now come on!" And with that he wheeled Roger sharply around and set off along the top of the bluff overlooking the river at a determined pace.

d'Artagnan smiled – his first in a long time – and took off after him.

It took a while to find a place where they could get the horses down and even then it was a narrow path ending in a ledge several feet above the level of the water. The horses baulked at first and then, when he realised his master was determined, Roger launched himself off in a massive leap, jerking Flip's reins from Athos' grasp. Fortunately there was nowhere for Flip to go on the narrow path, with d'Artagnan bringing up the rear on Nuit, and d'Artagnan managed to push alongside Flip to grab his reins before nudging him strongly in the ribs with his good foot, so that the two horses took the plunge together.

Athos was shocked by how cold the water was as it flooded into his boots and dragged at his legs.

The horses had to work hard against the swift current, noses thrust skywards, nostrils flaring, and it took several minutes for them to reach the far side. The horses emerged together, plunging up the path on the far side with disgusted snorts, and stopping as soon as they were allowed to shake themselves vigorously. Athos sent an enquiring glance at d'Artagnan to check that he was ready to carry on; the young Musketeer's response was to spur Nuit past Athos to take the lead. Quirking a fleeting smile at his stubbornness, Athos urged Roger and Flip to follow.

They halted the horses just over the crest, both men experienced enough to make sure they weren't silhouetted against the sky where they stopped, and looked out across the valley floor. On the far side the foothills of the Serra Montgrony loomed, maybe a league away, Athos estimated. Under the silvery moonlight the valley looked peaceful and quiet, yet both men could smell the wood smoke from the Spanish encampment barely three hundred paces away. Still marvelling at the thought of running across the valley, let alone deep into the hills beyond, Athos looked at d'Artagnan.

The young Musketeer sat tall in the saddle in spite of the battering his body had already taken that night. He seemed be deep in concentration as he traced the pathways with his eyes.

"Do you know the route?"

d'Artagnan nodded without looking at Athos. "More or less. We should get going; this is the flattest section so I want to move fast here; we will have to slow down once we leave the valley."

Athos hesitated, knowing the dangers of riding fast at night on unknown paths. But d'Artagnan knew this too and wouldn't risk injuries to their mounts unnecessarily, so he nodded his agreement. "Lead the way," he said, more invitation than command, and d'Artagnan nudged Nuit into a steady canter without further comment.

* * *

 _So, they're on their way, and we're nearly there with this story... or are we?_


	9. Chapter 9: I'll Carry You Home

_I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this! Lots of 'real life' got in the way ... but the good news is that this is a long chapter, and I'll be posting the next one in a day or two as well as I bring this little romp to a finale. Hope you enjoy._

 **Chapter 9: I'll Carry You Home**

 _The high hills of northern Spain, 11.45pm_

They rode hard for the first hour. d'Artagnan slowed the pace whenever he was unsure of the path or the moon's light vanished behind the clouds, but he rarely dropped below a trot except when crossing a streambed or negotiating a steeper slope.

They crossed the valley without drama, and were soon heading steadily uphill, their path winding around craggy slopes and steeply wooded hillsides. The pathway frequently disappeared altogether where rock falls had sent the path crumbling into a ravine or covered it with loose scree. D'Artagnan proved adept at finding ways around and Athos only worried once, when the Gascon's mount lost her footing and slid on straight forelegs down several feet of loose stones before plunging to a halt, tossing her head and snorting in displeasure. Athos heard a definite gasp of pain from the Gascon as his braced body rattled in the saddle. Instantly he was out of his own saddle, pushing Flip aside ready to climb down to d'Artagnan, but the latter quickly called up softly "We're fine," as he gentled Nuit with a reassuring pat on the neck, shushing her as she fussed and stamped on the spot.

Athos paused, holding both sets of reins in one hand and peering down. "Sure?" he prompted, when d'Artagnan made no further move to speak or direct Nuit back up.

"Mm... There's a better path down here, might be easier than getting back up to you. Give me a minute?" and before Athos could respond, d'Artagnan was urging Nuit to take careful steps sideways down the slope. Athos watched, holding his breath. It looked precarious but he couldn't help but admire the man's horsemanship. He wasn't sure he would enjoy following, and decided he would lead the horses down rather than try to do it mounted, but he realised d'Artagnan had probably taken a sensible decision to continue downwards: ahead of him on their original path lay an even steeper section of rock fall dotted with large boulders that looked ready to roll with the slightest nudge. Sighing, he waited until d'Artagnan had reached the safety of the lower path then stepped carefully over the edge and started to urge his two reluctant charges to follow the young Musketeer's route.

Fifty feet below him he could make out d'Artagnan's pale face watching anxiously as they laboured down the slope, both horses sliding at times and sending stones skittering down. d'Artagnan moved Nuit further along the path as they approached to make sure her legs were not hit by the increasing number of missiles dislodged as they neared the bottom. Finally they made it and both men breathed sighs of relief.

"Sorry," apologised d'Artagnan as Athos made to remount.

His Captain paused, one foot in his stirrup. "What for?" he enquired.

"I must have gone wrong. I don't remember this part at all. I think we're too far west but I can't see where I missed the route or how to rejoin it..." The exhaustion he must have been feeling all night was now plain in his voice and Athos mounted quickly, drawing Flip close to him and nudging Roger forward. Close to, he could see weariness and pain vying for supremacy in the Gascon's face, and he wondered again if the lad was hiding other injuries. He hadn't had time to check with Etienne after he'd treated d'Artagnan at the camp; by the time he'd finished going over the arrangements with Jumot d'Artagnan was already mounting up and clearly impatient to leave, and Athos' own anxiety about Porthos had driven all else out of his mind other than the need to set off without further delay.

"Well, you've found a decent path here. Let's go, and work out a new direction once we have choices." d'Artagnan nodded, and the pair set off again.

The next hour or so was tough as they worked their way above deep gorges, through wooded sections and past high cliffs, and both men and horses were sweating heavily by the time d'Artagnan finally exclaimed and pointed. "There! That's Lillet, only an hour or so from Porthos. Maybe less on horseback," he added, more doubtfully, realising it had taken almost as long on horseback to get back to this point as it had taken him to run from here to the camp.

Athos came alongside, reaching out to clasp d'Artagnan's shoulder briefly in recognition of his skills in navigating them back to this point. The journey on foot back to the Musketeer camp must have been easier, in a way, as he had only needed to head north by the stars and to correct himself by following familiar landmarks once he'd reached the flat lands near the river. To find his way back again, needing to find different paths for the horses, and heading for a very specific point deep in the unfamiliar mountains, was a much tough proposition.

"Which way now?" he asked quietly, watching the young Musketeer carefully as he tried to settle himself in the saddle. He was clearly in pain and Athos was just wondering whether to suggest a rest when d'Artagnan answered him.

"We need to aim for the south east side of the valley. That's where I came across a Spanish patrol though, so I'm not sure of the path across." Seeing Athos' look of enquiry, he elaborated quickly. "I couldn't outrun them on foot, so I aimed for the village and ... well, I managed to lose them there." He hesitated, and Athos waited patiently, knowing there was more that d'Artagnan had left unsaid.

"Actually, Athos, could you give me a couple of minutes? There's something I'd like ... something I need to do." He waited for a nod from Athos before sliding stiffly from the saddle, stifling a curse as his right foot touched the ground. He ducked his head for a moment, bracing himself with hands on the saddle, before straightening up again with a hitched breath. "Stiff," he muttered by way of explanation (completely missing the roll of Athos' eyes that signified just what he thought of that particular lie) before unlacing something from his saddle and handing Nuit's reins to Athos, then walking swiftly, if unevenly, towards a break in the low stone wall that surrounded a small field. Within moments Athos had lost sight of him as he worked his way towards the cluster of adobe dwellings in the centre of the valley, skilfully using every scrap of concealment available to him.

It was more like five minutes before he returned, but he was moving more easily and Athos did not begrudge him the wait. The horses had needed the rest and clearly the change of movement had helped d'Artagnan's stiff muscles.

d'Artagnan took Nuit's reins and thanked Athos as he realised Athos had lined her up with a convenient wall for a mounting block while he waited. They moved off again at a steady trot, Athos casting a glance at the Gascon but content to wait until he volunteered an explanation.

Towards the head of the valley d'Artagnan turned Nuit and popped her over another low wall into a field of sheep, sending them scattering to either side as he rode through. Athos followed more circumspectly, making sure both his horses had a good view of the jump before nudging them over it. Ahead he could see that d'Artagnan had slowed to a halt at the edge of the track on the far side of the valley and was holding a warning hand up, listening intently. "Something?" asked Athos quietly as he drew rein beside him and cocking his own head. For a moment both men sat in silence, but Athos heard only the soft whisper of the wind through the trees, the tinkle of a cow bell from behind him, and the soft bleat of a goat.

Eventually d'Artagnan shook his head and moved off, taking the track to the right as it headed uphill again. "This is where I got caught by the patrol. I'd moved off the path by those trees, didn't check properly after the first few riders went by. Stupid mistake."

Athos could see a muscle jumping in his jaw and went to speak, but d'Artagnan forestalled him. "It _was_ stupid! If I'd been caught..." He didn't finish the sentence but both men knew he was thinking about Porthos who would have been waiting for rescue in vain, if d'Artagnan had been picked up by a patrol.

"Hey."

d'Artagnan looked over at him, dark eyes unreadable.

"You weren't caught. Mistakes happen. It's what we do about them that counts."

Athos's voice was steady, calming, and d'Artagnan drew in a long breath in response.

"Mm ... yes." He nodded, once, but Athos could see the tension drop out of his shoulders, and stifled a smile. He loved d'Artagnan's intensity but at times it was hard work getting him to give himself credit.

d'Artagnan pushed fast through the stretch of narrow, tree-lined pathway winding its way between the shoulders of the two imposing granite mountain tops towering above them. Soon they were riding into yet another high, hanging valley, where the path widened again and they could push on at a fast canter, but towards the top of the valley they slowed to a walk by mutual consent to give the horses a breather.

Under different circumstances Athos knew he would have loved this moonlight ride through the hanging pathways, brother at his side and the crisp, pine-scented air filling his lungs. It made him want to laugh out loud after the dusty months of setting up and moving camp, drilling the men, interminable meetings, and waiting for action, worrying about every detail and hoping he'd done enough to keep everyone safe. This mission tonight would be like an unexpected holiday, if it wasn't for his fear about Porthos, who could be dead for all either of them knew. And the brother alongside him who was struggling to stay upright in the saddle, his features pinched with pain and his breath hitching whenever Nuit changed gait or stumbled.

Athos nudged Roger closer. "Time we took another stop; the horses need a breather and so do I."

d'Artagnan shot him a look which indicated he knew exactly why Athos was suggested a stop. "We're really close now. They'll get a breather when we get to him."

Athos hesitated, but decided not to argue. The Gascon was as stubborn as the rest of them when it came to injuries, and besides he was right: they both wanted to get to Porthos as soon as possible and if it genuinely wasn't far now it would be better to keep going. He glanced at d'Artagnan again and noticed his hand was continually straying to his neckline in a familiar gesture, but something looked odd. He frowned, and d'Artagnan looked over.

"What's wrong?"

Ah! He had it now. "Your cross – have you lost it?" Constance had given her new husband a small wooden cross before they left for the front line, which he always wore on a thong around his neck. Athos had noticed that, under stress, d'Artagnan's hand inevitably reached for it, as if for reassurance, but both cross and thong were now missing. Athos watched as regret crossed the Gascon's features, and understood – he would feel its loss deeply. Athos had cherished his wife's silver locket for years after her supposed death and understood the comfort such a thing could give, even though in his case it had been spiced with torment.

"Not lost," d'Artagnan said quietly, then explained succinctly. "In Lillet, I would have been captured if it weren't for a villager who covered for me, sent the patrol in another direction. I ... he told me his son is my age, more or less, and in the Spanish army. I suppose... Oh, Athos! He helped me because he's frightened for his son and hopes some Frenchman would do the same for his kin ... and yet we kill each other without even looking at faces, or thinking about families waiting at home... I might already have killed his son!" His voice was low, but rough with anguish as he voiced the thoughts that, perhaps, all soldiers face at one time or another.

Athos deftly unpicked this quiet outburst and saw to the truth of it. d'Artagnan understood war and death – more than someone his age should, perhaps – and had accepted it as part of a Musketeer's life. But now he was exhausted, in pain, was worried sick about Porthos, had been hunted, then saved by an random act of kindness from a stranger; no wonder he was struggling with his emotions. It was understandable, but Athos couldn't let d'Artagnan dwell on it now, when Porthos was still missing and they were deep in hostile territory.

So he spoke softly, but firmly. "That's war, d'Artagnan. Concentrate on the kindness, not the killing. We can talk about it later if you want, but right now, we have a job to do. We just have to keep going, for Porthos' sake. Nothing else matters right now."

d'Artagnan's head was bowed, his expression hidden behind sweat-soaked hair, and his hand strayed again to where the cross should be. Then Athos saw his shoulders rise as he took a long, deep breath, and lifted his gaze to meet Athos'. "I know," he said quietly. "That's what I've been doing all night, just keeping going for Porthos."

Athos reached over and laid a hand on d'Artagnan's arm, squeezing gently. "You've done him proud."

"I made him promise to stay alive till I got back," d'Artagnan said, gruffly.

Athos nodded in approval, but sought a way to turn the conversation, worried that the youngster was close to breaking point.

"So how did you lose the cross?" he asked, remembering that d'Artagnan had not yet explained this and hoping it would not send him deeper into melancholy. With relief he saw his instinct had been correct, as d'Artagnan raised a smile from somewhere deep inside.

"The villager gave me his water bottle. When we stopped there on our way back, I realised I could return it. I wanted to let him know that he'd helped me to make it back. I left it on his doorstep but I wanted to ... to do something more. He saved my life, without a doubt! So I hung my cross on the bottle. To say thank you ..." His voice trailed off, sounding frustrated at his inability to express exactly what that encounter had meant to him.

Athos hunted for words of wisdom, or reassurance, but instead found he was unexpectedly missing Aramis, knowing if he were here, he could rely on him to help the young Musketeer. If anyone had got to grips with conflicting emotions, and dealing with loss and betrayal without losing his faith in humanity, it was him. But he wasn't here, damn it! D'Artagnan was stuck with him, the lord of the grunt. And meanwhile the silence was stretching...

"Thanks, Athos." Apropos of nothing, it seemed, d'Artagnan was smiling at him. Athos must have shown his confusion on his face for the lad grinned and explained. "You don't say much but you listen, and give me space to work out what I'm feeling. It helps. Right, let's push on again, I think we're nearly there."

Blinking, Athos watched d'Artagnan nudge Nuit into a canter and head for a narrow pathway out of the head of the valley, then hastened to catch up, marvelling at the resilience of youth.

* * *

 _Aranyonet, 2.45am_

"There!" d'Artagnan pointed. "That rock-face, he's up there somewhere."

Athos squinted but it looked the same as every other rock face they'd ridden past. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, look – that's where we went over... I climbed back up about here."

Athos looked cautiously over the edge of the path ahead, where d'Artagnan was indicating, and saw nothing but deep shadows and a white gleam of tumbling water far, far below.

"That's where you went over?" he asked, incredulously. A fall there could so easily have proved fatal, or left d'Artagnan with horrific injuries.

"I think so ... yes, I see my poor horse. She didn't stand a chance." He pointed to a dark shape far below the path and about a hundred paces ahead of where they'd halted. Athos blanched but had no time to respond, for d'Artagnan had spurred Nuit on, rounding a shoulder of rock then skidded to a sudden halt with an exclamation. "Athos," he hissed over his shoulder, drawing his pistol and sliding to the ground in one fluid motion.

Athos was behind him in seconds, barely aware of getting there, only of the urgency in d'Artagnan's voice. The latter was now stalking cautiously forward, and as Athos caught up he could immediately see why: the pathway around the bend was strewn with bodies – not just five, as d'Artagnan had described, but at least double that – and two more, Athos noticed now, on the cliff face to their right, one draped over a low ledge, the other higher up. What had happened here?

d'Artagnan pointed to the highest body. "Porthos was in a cave just above that body," he whispered, stooping over the nearest body and prodding the man cautiously with a booted toe, checking that he was lifeless.

Athos didn't waste time reacting. "Check the rest of them, then get the horses and keep alert. I'll go and ... get him."

If d'Artagnan noticed the hesitation, he didn't comment; he was as worried as Athos at this turn of events. He knew exactly how many bodies there had been on the path when he'd left Porthos, and it looked as if there'd been a pitched battle here since then. Heart pounding with renewed worry for his injured brother, he quickly checked that the remaining bodies were all lifeless, then jogged back to gather up the horses, noticing that Athos was already halfway up to the cave opening, having tipped the first body off the narrow ledge to clear his way.

Scrambling on hands and knees, Athos wondered how on earth d'Artagnan had got Porthos up here in the first place. Then he was at the next body which he toed off the ledge to give him a clear path up. Ahead he could see the shadow of the cave and he realised that if Porthos was still alive in there, it would be wise to warn him that it was friend, not foe, climbing up. Wetting his lips he produced a soft fluting whistle. There was a tiny pause, and he was aware of his heart beat speeding up and sweat starting to trickle down his forehead. Was he still conscious, still alive even? Or had he been found and dragged away as a prisoner...

There was a sudden rustle from the cave, and a half whistle that ended in a stifled, but very familiar, chuckle, then a loud whisper. "Can't bloody whistle, I'm out of water. Took your bloody time, didn't you?"

Athos dropped his head to his chest for a second in total relief, then scrambled rapidly up the rest of the pathway. Reaching the entrance he saw movement in the shadowed interior, and virtually fell inside in his haste to get to his brother. There wasn't much room but he managed to insinuate himself and finally, _finally_ got an armful of Porthos. For a long moment there was just Porthos' familiar musk in his nostrils, wild hair under his fingers, solid body crushing him to his chest, and a backslap that rattled his spine.

Eventually Athos extricated himself and sat back on his heels, getting his first clear look at his beloved Lieutenant. Porthos looked suspiciously bright-eyed, but seemed surprisingly alert. The two grinned ridiculously at each other for a moment, then Athos cleared his throat. "How's your leg?" As he spoke he was eyeing d'Artagnan's bandaging, hands reaching out to start undoing it – then stopped hastily as Porthos slapped his hand away.

"It's fine, stitches are holdin' so don't mess with it!" Porthos told him testily.

Athos held his hands up in a gesture of submission. "Can you put weight on it?"

"Why? Am I walkin' home? Please tell me you brought horses..."

"We have horses," Athos reassured him. "Just need to get you down there – before any more patrols turn up..." He eyed Porthos with a raised eyebrow.

Porthos grinned, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "Yeah, that was fun. Whole bunch of 'em turned up, started searching the ravine. I was 'oping to lay low but one of 'em started climbing up 'ere so I 'ad to show m'self. Just as well d'Artagnan left me his pistol and all his shot – was down to my last two balls as it was."

Athos winced, imagining the loneliness of Porthos' grim situation as he picked off his attackers one by one, making each shot as carefully as if his life depended on it. Which it had.

Porthos leaned out of his cave and spotted d'Artagnan who by now had mounted up and was holding the other two sets of reins in one hand, pistol ready in the other, and was alternately peering anxiously up at the cave then checking all around. When he saw Porthos' head appearing his face split into the most enormous grin and Athos, edging past Porthos holding his weapons, water bottle and blanket, realised that d'Artagnan had been ignorant until then as to whether Porthos had survived. Mentally kicking himself for not reassuring the Gascon earlier, Athos throw down the bottle and blanket which d'Artagnan caught in his good hand, having hastily holstered his pistol. Athos shoved the spare weapons in his belt before catching Porthos under his shoulders, ready to help him to his feet.

"Where's the rest of my rescue party then?" Porthos sounded grumpy but Athos knew it was an act to divert his attention from his pain as he huffed his way to a semi-standing position, injured leg cocked so it bore no weight.

"Just us. d'Artagnan insisted it was better this way, and everyone else is gearing up to defend the bridge." Belatedly Athos remembered that Porthos knew nothing of the gathering Spanish force, and quickly filled him in as he manoeuvred him out of the cave and down the series of ledges towards the waiting horses.

Porthos' barrel of oaths was almost empty by the time he was sitting on the lowest ledge. d'Artagnan had manoeuvred Flip so he was lined up with the ledge, and when the big man gave the nod, the young musketeer gently guided Porthos' injured leg over the saddle, then steadied him under the arms as Athos handed him down. Porthos hissed through clenched teeth as he landed in the saddle, and d'Artagnan kept an arm around him while he breathed, head bowed. d'Artagnan's own eyes squinted in sympathy until Porthos' head lifted and he turned to look at the Gascon.

"You made it, then," he commented lightly, before leaning over and returned the one-armed hug with fierce intensity.

"Of course!" d'Artagnan's light tone belied the glistening of his eyes as he pushed Porthos gently upright again, and he kept a hand on Porthos' arm for longer than was strictly necessary to steady him.

"Never doubted you for a minute," Porthos said softly.

"Gentlemen." Athos' tone was dry but gentle as he nodded towards the path home. "Shall we?"

* * *

The return journey flew by, in d'Artagnan's mind. This night had gone on far too long, and it seemed inconceivable that it was only hours since the initial attack last evening. But now that all three were together, and he knew Porthos was going to survive his wound, d'Artagnan's heart was soaring with relief and he felt as if he could ride forever.

Athos offered to take point, mindful of the weariness that d'Artagnan must be feeling, but the Gascon had got his second wind and led them swiftly and assuredly along pathways that were becoming almost familiar to him now. As on the outward ride, they were unbothered by further patrols, which they hoped meant that no more soldiers were congregating at the bridge.

Porthos was determined not to slow them down and refused all offers to rest until d'Artagnan's stomach cramps mysteriously returned and necessitated regular stops every half hour or so whilst he disappeared into the bushes, wincing and rubbing at his stomach. On the second such occasion Athos nudged Roger over to d'Artagnan as he remounted and fixed him with his steely gaze. d'Artagnan looked back, a picture of innocence. Athos' lips twitched as he moved off, muttering "Don't overdo it!"

Despite the stops, Porthos was sagging over his saddle by the time d'Artagnan drew rein at the northern side of the valley, within sight of the Torrent de Saltèguet river.

"Porthos, we're nearly there. Just a few more minutes, can you – "

"I'm good. Get on with it," Porthos interrupted gruffly.

d'Artagnan looked at Athos. "It's nearly light. I think we should take the longer route behind the hills – the Spanish camp will be stirring soon and we can't risk the direct route."

Athos hesitated, looking over d'Artagnan's shoulder to the path that wound up the last hillside. On their way out, they had crossed the river downstream of the camp but worked their way across the top of the hill, through bushes, to join the direct path just above the camp. In the grey pre-dawn light that path would give a clear view of the camp and enable him to assess the Spanish troop numbers and position of the guns. d'Artagnan had been able to give him some information but, understandably, he'd been preoccupied with dodging soldiers rather than counting them. They needed to know what they were facing.

Mind made up, he looked at d'Artagnan to see the Gascon's face already tight and his mouth open to protest. Athos smiled. They knew each other too well by now. A wordless battle of wills ensued as d'Artagnan bit his lip, glancing at Porthos who was lost in his own world of pain, then back at Athos who was waiting patiently for him to make the inevitable decision. As predicted, d'Artagnan gave in with a huff of resignation.

"Thank you," Athos said quietly. "Get Porthos safely across. I'll catch you up."

d'Artagnan gathered Porthos' reins from the big man's unprotesting fingers, and gave Athos a worried nod as he clucked his tongue to get both horses moving. Athos waited until they'd picked their way to a smaller path on the right, which headed around the back of the hill, before moving off at a quiet walk up the path leading into the camp.

He stopped well before the top of the hill, leaving his horse in the same copse of trees in which d'Artagnan had sheltered last night when he first heard the sounds of the camp, and began to make his way on foot to the top of the rise where he hoped to get a good view of the camp.

Hand on sword to keep it silent, he crouched behind the last bit of cover and cautiously poked his head up to view the camp.

In the murky light it took him a few moments to make much out, but he was immediately aware of the sounds of a camp stirring. Low voices called between tents as men emerged, stretching and strapping on weapons. Athos cursed as he began to see the extent of the troops; he counted twenty small tents which, he guessed, each housed at least four men. His stomach began to churn as he made out the field cannon in the centre of camp and realised that his men would be outgunned, as well as outnumbered something like three to one. d'Artagnan had told him of his efforts to spike the cannon but it was entirely possible that the Spaniards had other supplies of gunpowder and fuses; they couldn't afford to be complacent.

Filled with a new sense of urgency he rose, his mind already working overtime planning where to place his men. He had to get back to them before the Spanish troops had time to launch their attack – for it was surely going to happen this morning.

He headed back to Roger at a crouching jog, so caught up in plans that he almost missed the sound of approaching voices. Skidding to a halt and pulling his pistol he looked around and spotted a foot patrol of six soldiers heading towards him from the camp. _Merde_! He was still forty paces from Roger and the safety of the trees. He decided to leg it, knowing once he reached Roger that he could easily get away from the foot patrol.

Luck was not with him this morning.

* * *

d'Artagnan led Porthos at a steady walk along the path that wound through scrub towards the east of the Spanish camp. He kept up a steady monologue, aware that Porthos was almost at the end of his reserves now. He talked quietly about the river ahead, and the need to find a low place to reach it; then began musing on what breakfast might await them, amused to see Porthos perk up slightly at the mention of food. Even so the big man seemed barely aware of their surroundings.

So much so that when d'Artagnan picked up the sound of riders a way behind them and stopped both horses, Porthos didn't even comment.

Straining his eyes through the pearly half-light, d'Artagnan swore as he made out a small group of riders approaching the main camp path from the valley they themselves had just traversed. They were moving at a fast canter. Where was Athos? Turning Nuit he looked to the top of the hill but could see no sign – although that was good, as it hopefully meant he'd also heard the approaching men and was lying low.

He dithered, knowing he had to get Porthos to safety but reluctant to move further from Athos with the patrol approaching fast. He was pretty sure he and Porthos were out of their line of sight, screened as they were by low bushes that would hid them at least until the men were past their pathway. Porthos mumbled a question – just as d'Artagnan heard shouts coming from the other direction, near the top of the hill. Where Athos was. _Putain de_ ...!

The approaching patrol had heard the commotion too and speeded up, their leader gesturing to the hill top. With a sinking heart d'Artagnan spotted dust rising from behind the trees and a swirl of movement from shadowy figures.

Mind made up he shoved Porthos' reins into his hands and told him urgently: "I'm going to help Athos. Get yourself to the river crossing - follow the path round the hill, then head left till you reach the river – wait for me there! Go!" He slapped Flip on the backside as he swung Nuit to face the hill then urged her into a flat-out gallop, crouching low over her withers, racing to cut the mounted patrol off before those men too reached Athos.

* * *

Porthos wobbled as Flip set off at a fast trot. He'd only half heard d'Artagnan, so focussed was he on staying in the saddle and not groaning from the pain radiating up his leg, the pounding in his head and the roiling of his stomach. Something about Athos, and heading left when he got to the river. Grimacing, he nudged Flip from a trot into her smooth canter to give him respite from the jarring on his leg.

* * *

Nuit's ears were flattened against her sweaty neck as she gamely thundered up the track. They were rapidly gaining on the patrol of four, but Nuit was already tired and d'Artagnan was still twenty paces behind when he saw one of the riders point towards the trees, then raise a pistol and take aim. He couldn't see the man's target but it didn't take a genius to guess.

Urging Nuit to a last surge of speed, he took aim with his own pistol. The two shots sounded almost simultaneously and for a second none of the riders ahead reacted. Then the pistol-wielder slowly toppled sideways and crashed to the ground; the other riders clattered to a halt and started to swing their mounts around to face the challenge from the rear, just as d'Artagnan reached them and sent Nuit crashing bravely into their midst as he swung his sword, catching them enough by surprise that he had landed a debilitating blow across the throat of one man and kicked another clean out of his saddle before they had time to organise themselves.

Whirling back he faced the fourth man, who was ready for him with such a solid swing that d'Artagnan was knocked sideways as their blades clashed and almost toppled out of the saddle. Cursing wildly d'Artagnan managed to free his sword as Nuit sidestepped, her head flying up as she half reared and lashed out with her forelegs. d'Artagnan scrambled to reseat himself and get his sword up in time to block the next strike.

Out of the corner of his eye d'Artagnan saw the man he'd kicked out of the saddle rise to his feet and draw his pistol, but he was busy trading bone-numbing sword-strikes and could only hope the man was a terrible shot.

The pace of the battle was frenetic as both men wheeled their horses and slashed at each other with all their might, and pistol-man was cursing as he struggled get a clear shot. Finally, impatient, he fired just as d'Artagnan ducked under a massive swing from his opponent. The musket ball whistled past d'Artagnan's ear and buried itself in the Spanish swordsman's chest, accompanied by a howl of anguish from the man who'd inadvertently shot his own comrade.

With no time to remark on his lucky escape, d'Artagnan had wheeled Nuit and sent her thundering towards the turmoil under the trees even before the swordsman had clattered backwards off his horse and fallen heavily to the ground.

In the pale morning light he could only see swirls of dust and shadowy figures, but he could hear the clashing of blades from the group of soldiers surrounding Athos. He would bet on his Captain against almost any swordsman in Europe, and six swordsmen cannot attack together without getting in each others' way, but one mistake, one lapse in concentration, would surely be fatal.

As d'Artagnan neared he could see Athos was a blur of motion in the circle of blades, manoeuvring nimbly, using sword, main gauche, elbows and feet to keep his attackers at bay. But no one could keep that up for long and d'Artagnan was still too far to help when he saw a blade land solidly across Athos' unprotected back as he struggled to fend off two blades in front. Fear flooded through d'Artagnan as he saw Athos stagger and fall to his knees.

* * *

 _Sorry to leave it there but this chapter was already long... I promise the next part will be up soon!_


	10. Chapter 10: You Are Worth Fighting For

_I had this chapter drafted ready for a final edit before posting at the weekend, but couldn't get Fanfiction to upload it for some reason. After a shutdown, reboot, Windows Update, laptop out of the window (well, I was tempted) etc it has finally loaded, hooray! So my apologies if anyone was waiting for it, but at least there have been lots of lovely updates from other authors over the weekend to keep us all going, and I hope this is up to standard!_

 **Chapter 10: You are worth fighting for**

 _Spanish Camp at Saltèguet, 6am_

d'Artagnan's memory of what happened next was fragmented - sights, sounds and smells all flickering and mingling in his mental imagery.

He did remember roaring a challenge and whirling his sword over his head as he thundered towards the Spaniards encircling Athos. Startled faces, their colour leached in the grey light of dawn. Men scrambling to avoid being trampled by Nuit.

Athos staggering to his feet, sword and main gauche held high to block repeated blows from a tall, black-bearded Spaniard who snarled into his face.

A whimper from the man who had struck Athos from behind, when d'Artagnan leaned sideways from the saddle and slit his belly open as the man turned, his sword still half-way through its backswing. The slaughter-house smell of sharp, coppery blood as the man fell backwards, staring in shock as his hands clutched at the gaping wound. The sucking, wet noise as d'Artagnan pulled his sword free.

Nuit's scream as some bastard soldier slashed at her chest.

d'Artagnan's answering roar of rage as he skewered the man through the chest.

Nuit stuttering to a halt and faltering, nostrils flaring in pain, dark blood spreading down her shoulder.

Athos down again, on one knee.

The breath whooshing out of d'Artagnan's lungs as he flung himself off Nuit and knocked the tall Spaniard off his feet just as he lunged at Athos. Landing in a jangle of weapons, elbows, curses, dust flying. Grunting as his fingers scrabbled for his dagger. Fist slamming into his face, blood spurting hot from his lip. Blade flashing towards his face as he knelt on the struggling body, ducking away almost too late, pain spiking in his bicep.

Spotting his own sword and rolling towards it, snatching it up and staggering to his feet in time to block a swipe that would have taken Athos' head off his shoulders.

Athos, bleeding from far too many places, leaning on his sword to push himself to his feet.

The sharp crack of a pistol.

Athos' body jerking and falling backwards, red stain blossoming on his chest.

A scream of utter despair pulled from deep in his body. " _Athos_!"

Leaping over Athos to block another sword-strike. Planting his feet either side of his Captain's body and blocking blow after blow with dagger and sword.

Unable to move from Athos' side, pinned in one place, trapped by love and his fierce determination to _protect_ , to not give up on him, to never yield.

Warm blood dripping down his sword arm.

Using his dagger to block another slashing blade, steel clashing, the force of the blow sending pain shooting up his injured wrist.

Knowing he was tiring, breath coming in ragged gasps, still three men around him, and Athos was not moving.

Having to leaving himself open to the weakest swordsman of the three while reaching to slash at the neck of a man with a pale shirt and black hair longer than d'Artagnan's own. Seeing the shirt turning red as the man toppled, clutching his torn throat.

Tasting blood in his own throat as if in sympathy, as his exposed flank was sliced open.

Blocking the pain so he could dive into the weaker fighter as he completed his clumsy backswing. Shoulder into his stomach, knocking him off balance, dagger flashing, another man down.

Scrambling back towards Athos, screaming another challenge at the last swordsman as he ran towards him. Seeing the hesitation on his face turn to fear as the crazy Frenchman loomed closer. Knowing, a split second before the man himself did, that he would turn to run. Running him through with a sword anyway.

Killing a frightened man anyway, because he'd shot Athos.

' _That's war.'_ Athos' voice in his head.

No more blades flashing. Sound coming back now, noise rushing in from all sides. Roger whinnying, Nuit's breath snorting from her nostrils. Shouts of alarm and confusion from the camp. Men's voices, feet thundering up the path towards him. Gunfire from across the river, distant commands as Musketeers scurried into position.

 _Athos!_

Falling to his knees beside him. His bloodied fingers trembling as he reached to touch his mentor, his friend, his brother. He couldn't feel a pulse, he couldn't feel a pulse, he couldn't feel...

His fingers were numb, that was all. He'd done this before, earlier tonight. Porthos had been alive then. Was he still? God... so much! It was all too much, just too much. He needed Athos' steadying presence.

He put a hand on Athos' chest, covering the wound, pressing down to stop the blood from pulsing out between his fingers, other hand cradling his limp head, trying to lift his body so he could hold him close.

His body was warm in his arms as d'Artagnan pulled him into his own chest, starting to rock him, feeling Athos' blood dampen his own shirt.

 _Wait_.

Athos was still bleeding.

His heart was still pumping.

He was still alive!

D'Artagnan didn't remember standing, or pulling Athos' unresisting body to his feet, or dragging him towards where Roger waited, his ears pricked forwards, stretching his nose towards his master as they approached.

He did remember sobbing in frustration as he tried to lift Athos up into the saddle, realising he had no strength left. He remembered swearing at himself and trying again, then the moment of sheer panic when a hand touched his shoulder and he realised he'd left his weapons on the ground by the red-stained dirt where Athos had fallen.

He remembered raising his forearm and turning to slam his elbow into his attacker's throat, and managing to stop himself just in time when he saw the familiar black leather of a Musketeer, not the red flash of a Spanish uniform.

"Hey, hey - it's me, Guérin. It's okay!"

It wasn't okay, not really, nothing was _okay_. But d'Artagnan let Guérin put an arm around Athos' waist and boost him into the saddle while d'Artagnan helped to guide his legs. Then d'Artagnan found himself leaning on Roger's shoulder and not doing anything very much, while Guérin peered at him in concern.

He knew the fair-haired Musketeer was talking, could hear the words but for a moment his brain had just shut down. He blinked lazily and tried to push away the black fog that was threatening his vision.

Slowly words filtered through again. "That's it, just breath. No rush. Definitely not in the middle of a battle here, after all." A shy smile from Guérin evoked a twitch of d'Artagnan's own lips as he recognised the gallows humour that helped keep the experienced soldiers grounded, in the heat of battle.

d'Artagnan gave him a small nod: he was back. Maybe not quite with it, and totally incapable of speech at the moment, but he could feel his brain cranking itself back into life again.

Guérin glanced around and d'Artagnan followed his gaze. Ignoring the utter carnage immediately before him, mind skipping over the crumpled bodies and the buzzing of flies around the puddles of warm blood – _already? Infernal things!_ – he saw that the Spanish camp was pulsing with frantic activity, small battles taking place around tents and spilling across the bridge.

A flicker of memory told him he'd seen more men heading up the hill towards where he and Athos had fought for their lives, but none had reached them and no one seemed to be heading their way now. Maybe the Musketeers had diverted them. Had they launched an attack across the bridge? He blinked again. His head was pounding and he couldn't seem to think straight. There was something he should be doing.

"d'Artagnan, can you ride?" Guérin was looking at him again, still holding Athos in place in the saddle, chewing his lip in indecision.

That was it! He had to get Athos to safety. Taking a deeper breath he squared his shoulders and pushed himself off Roger's supporting shoulder, then took hold of the cantle and raised his left leg in a silent request for a leg-up. Pain immediately flared in his flank from the new wound but Guérin was already stooping and heaving him upwards, and then he was in the saddle, trying to breathe through the pain, his hands reaching automatically to steady Athos and gather the reins.

"Can you...?" he managed to croak past a throat so dry it felt like he'd swallowed crushed glass. Guérin, bless him, worked out the rest and bent to snatch up d'Artagnan's weapons.

"Athos' sword..." d'Artagnan pointed.

Guérin collected it but looked dubiously at the mounted musketeer, who seemed to be covered in blood – whether his or Athos's he didn't know – and already had his hands full of unconscious Captain. "I'll bring it for him," he offered, and d'Artagnan nodded distractedly, looking around. Guérin did the same, wondering what other belongings the young Musketeer sought.

"My horse – can you get her? I'll lead her back." d'Artagnan had spotted her now, standing with her head down, sweat and blood darkening her chest. Guérin jogged over to gather her up and she chucked her head in the air, snorting apprehensively. "She's injured!" d'Artagnan called out a warning and Guérin slowed, speaking to her gently as he reached for the trailing reins.

d'Artagnan waited impatiently as Guérin led the mare over, torn between anxiety for her as he watched her stiff gait, and intense fear for the unconscious man he was holding in his arms. He almost snatched her reins from Guérin but the Musketeer held on, snagging d'Artagnan's eyes with his own.

"Stay away from the camp. Go the way Porthos went – you should be able to get across the river downstream of the bridge and Jumot has units on our side to give covering fire."

d'Artagnan nodded – he knew this – but as Guérin released his hold on the reins d'Artagnan thought to check: "So Porthos got back okay?" – then looked on, bemused, as Guérin snorted out a wry laugh.

"Eventually," was all he would say.

* * *

It was hard work keeping Athos in the saddle as he made his way back down the track, leaving the chaotic sounds of battle behind him. The path around the track was eerily quiet and although he couldn't stop himself from obsessively checking every rustle of leaves in the morning breeze, and click as a hoof kicked up a stone, his heart rate did slow down. He began to notice the quiet birdsong from finches in the shrubs bordering the path, and the warmth of the new sun as it crested the horizon and fingered his skin. It seemed bizarre that the surroundings seemed so peaceful, within minutes of an ongoing battle.

He kept Roger at a walk and the well-trained stallion seemed to know he had to be steady, responding to legs alone as d'Artagnan struggled to hold onto Athos' body and Nuit's reins with stiff fingers slippery with blood.

By the time they rounded the hill and caught sight of the river again, d'Artagnan's exhaustion had snuck up on him as his battle-heightened senses relaxed their hold. His eyes felt gritty and he blinked constantly as an overwhelming need for sleep swept over him. He had to consciously analyse the scene ahead, step by step, as his mind tried to shut down. River bank – dip over there. No cover but that meant no hidden dangers. Fighting to his left, on the edge of the camp, but too far away to trouble him. The slope of the hill behind was clear, no visible heads or glints from snipers' weapons. On the far side of the river he could see figures moving through the tangle of shrubs at the top of the rocky banks. Was that the right place to cross? Were they Musketeers or had the Spanish broken through on the French side of the bridge?

He squinted at the bridge a few hundred paces to his left. There was a pitch battle on his side of it but the French side looked empty. Reassured, he nudged Roger forward, heading for the dip which hinted at the steep path he and Athos had used to scramble out of the river when they'd crossed earlier that night.

Athos tipped forward as d'Artagnan pointed Roger's head down the path, and for a moment d'Artagnan thought he would drop him as his fingers scrabbled weakly at Athos' doublet, trying to get a better grip on him. Roger's hooves slipped a little on the pathway and Nuit hesitated, which yanked the hand holding her reins, pulling d'Artagnan off-balance; then Roger stopped at the river's edge, Nuit bumped into him from behind, and Roger reacted by making a leap forward. As if in slow motion, d'Artagnan found himself being dragged backwards by Nuit's reins as Roger's forelegs touched down on the water as if he was expecting the landing to be solid. Then the stallion disappeared in a fountain of water, and d'Artagnan followed, plummeting into the water under Athos' deadweight.

The world turned brown as d'Artagnan kicked desperately for the surface, fighting to keep hold of Athos. There was a swirl to his right and he was bumped by something solid, then a pumping hoof caught him in the small of his back. He barely knew which way was up and his lungs were bursting, but suddenly his head was clear of the water for a second. He dragged a breath in and instinctively turned onto his back, dragging Athos onto his chest and shoving a hand under his chin to keep his face out of the water. Frantically he kicked with his legs and flailed his free arm to the side in an effort to keep his own head above water. Then his hand hit something hard and he grabbed hold of it, finding it was the flap of a saddle. Clutching hold as if his life depended on it – which it quite possibly did – he pulled both Athos and himself higher out of the water and tried to look around, pink water streaming off his blood-streaked face and wet hair plastered over his eyes.

The river's edge was surprisingly close and for a panicked moment he wondered if he'd got turned around in the water and was still by the Spanish side. Then he heard a welcome shout of "d'Artagnan, over here!" which he thought was optimistic – since he had absolutely no control over where he was heading – but encouraging. And suddenly there was a flurry of movement behind him as someone grabbed him by his collar and another pair of hands caught hold of Athos'doublet.

Within seconds d'Artagnan had been hauled out and dumped, dripping, coughing and gasping for breath, on the stony slope of the French river bank. For a moment all he could do was watch, drawing ragged, uneven breaths into his tortured lungs, while someone – Etienne, he realised slowly – worked frantically over Athos, ripping at the fastenings on his doublet to get access to his chest.

Athos' flesh looked white, contrasting starkly with the dark red of the wound. D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, unable to cope with the sight of Athos looking so... lifeless.

Then he jerked them open as someone slapped his cheek and shouted his name. "d'Artagnan, stay with me, don't... Oh!" d'Artagnan found himself staring up into the agitated face of Fouchard, his hand raised as if frozen in mid-strike.

d'Artagnan sighed, which started him coughing again. He held a hand out weakly until Fouchard got the hint and grabbed it, hauling him into a sitting position.

"Sorry, d'Artagnan, I thought you were... I thought..."

d'Artagnan waved the youngster's stammering apology away. "How bad is it?" he called over to Etienne. And then, as the medic hesitated, hands still busy fixing a field dressing over the chest wound and checking Athos carefully for any head wound, he thought to ask after Porthos. "And Porthos – how is he?"

Fouchard's eyes grew wide as he sat back on his haunches. "He was magnificent! Such a sight – half the Spanish scarpered when they saw him, honestly. He... "

"What do you mean?"

"When he galloped through the camp, like a Viking or something, whirling his sword over his head, hollering... we couldn't believe our eyes!"

"He did WHAT?" d'Artagnan lunged upwards then erupted into another fit of coughing. Fouchard grabbed him and started clouting him across the shoulders until Etienne shouted at him to "leave the poor lad alone!" then yelled for stretcher bearers. d'Artagnan drew his knees up to give them space to squeeze past to where Athos lay, then leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his aching head on his arm, watching as they loaded his Captain carefully onto the stretcher then set off past him and up the rocky slope at a fast run.

"Don't drop him!" yelled Etienne urgently after them as he stooped down next to him. "d'Artagnan, where are you hurt? And don't give me any bullshit, I want to get working on Athos without delay."

His bluntness got through to d'Artagnan where Aramis' entreaties had often failed, and he didn't bother dissembling. "Nothing life-threatening. A few cuts; one on my side might need stitches." Etienne was already pulling up his shirt to look, tutting as he caught sight of the long, angry looking gash running from d'Artagnan's lower ribs past his hip and down the outside of his thigh.

"And this wound here, from a musket ball? It's not fresh – when did this happen?" he asked sharply, poking at a round, puckered hole just below d'Artagnan's hip bone and prompting a hiss of pain from the Gascon.

"I don't know," he gasped, tears springing into his eyes from the unexpected pain. Etienne glared at him. "No really, I... oh, wait." He remembered the sharp tug at his hip the night before, as he was fleeing the cave where he'd left Porthos. "It must have been then," he said, almost to himself, then flinched as Etienne's finger headed for the wound again.

"When?" he snapped again.

d'Artagnan hastened to explain before Etienne poked at it again. "Last night. I was shot at in the dark – got a scratch on my arm... no, that's a sword wound from just now, it was further up – ow! Yes, there."

"Hm, doesn't even need stitching, that one."

"I told you it was just a scratch." d'Artagnan was aware he sounded slightly petulant but he really didn't feel well. His stomach felt as if it was full of river water and if he went on talking he thought he might throw up.

"You also told me you had no serious wounds. I can see plenty needing stitches before I've even examined you properly." He pointed at d'Artagnan's flank wound, the musket wound on his hip, the sword slice across his forearm, and then waved vaguely at his face, presumably at some other cut d'Artagnan had forgotten about. Etienne went on as he pushed himself to his feet: "You'd better not be hiding anything else. Right, I need to get back to help Athos. The musket ball is still in his chest. Fouchard, get d'Artagnan back to camp."

* * *

They made slow progress up the path, since d'Artagnan insisted on walking so he could lead Nuit. Fouchard took Roger's reins with a faintly awed expression on his face; the stallion was legendary amongst the new recruits and Fouchard was not used to handling him. He made sure he stayed well clear of the stallion's teeth, knowing his reputation for taking chunks out of anyone he didn't like.

As they started along the top path towards camp a couple of shots sounded from the Spanish side of the river, but the shots fell harmlessly into the water, the range being too great.

"Good job they haven't used their field cannon," Fouchard commented as the path split near the bridge, where a half a dozen Musketeers under Jumot's leadership were loading weapons before heading across to join the fight.

Jumot overheard the comment. "Down to you, wasn't it, d'Artagnan?" And, before d'Artagnan could answer, Jumot had continued. "Good job, that was, lad. Seems they had more gunpowder, but no more fuses stashed away. Lucky for us; we'd have been cut down on this side, if they'd been able to use their cannon."

d'Artagnan caught hold of Jumot as the lieutenant was about to turn away. "What's happening?"

Jumot paused, looking kindly at the young Musketeer. "Nothing we expected, thanks to you and Porthos. Would have been nice to know what you'd planned, but we've coped; got a good foothold across the bridge and broken the back of their resistance. They were in chaos, to be honest."

They were interrupted by a shout from one of the waiting Musketeers, and Jumot swung round, looking where the Musketeer was pointing at a group of Spanish soldiers making a break for one of the paths leading out of their camp, then waved an apologetic hand at d'Artagnan and set off at a run to join the others as they headed across the bridge.

For the first time d'Artagnan could see the camp properly by daylight, and his eye was immediately drawn to the trees at the top of the rise where he and Athos had fought, barely half an hour ago. He found the site immediately, could even make out some of the bodies that lay where they had fallen.

Fouchard followed d'Artagnan's gaze. "That was quite a spectacle."

d'Artagnan glanced at him, uncomprehending.

"Your fight? We didn't realise what was happening until we heard you shouting for Athos and we saw you charging up on Nuit. It was barely light but then the first rays started picking up your swords, flashing against the dawn sky. It was awesome."

d'Artagnan was taken aback. He'd had no idea that the whole fight could be seen from this side of the river by his own men.

Fouchard watched the realisation dawn on d'Artagnan's tired features, and grinned to himself. "So there we were, scrambling to our weapons and Jumot was shouting orders to lay down fire from this side and trying to work out how to get men across to help you, what with the bridge and riverbanks being guarded and the whole camp roused by you and Athos. There were Spaniards racing around in all directions and some heading up the hill towards you, and we knew we were too far away to help – then Porthos comes bursting out from behind the hill. d'Artagnan, he only gallops through the whole bloomin' camp yelling his head off! So of course all the Spaniards start running after him, instead of up the hill towards you an' Athos, and Jumot's cursing you all now cos he doesn't know what's going on, only then he realises all the bridge guards are watching Porthos, so he gives the order to cross the bridge while they're distracted, then all the shooting starts, and Porthos turns and gallops back into the middle of everything, and half of them panic ... You didn't see any of it?"

They'd turned by now and were heading down the path into camp, d'Artagnan's legs feeling three times heavier than normal, finding it hard to lift his sodden boots off the ground to take each step. Fouchard had wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's waist, tentatively at first but now more firmly as d'Artagnan staggered on leaden legs.

d'Artagnan shook his head. "Porthos was supposed to stay out of sight and cross the river the same place we just did. What was he thinking? Where is he now – is he okay?"

Fouchard nodded, still beaming at the memory of Porthos, dark curls flying around his blood-stained face, looking every inch like a mythical warrior as he raced unchallenged through the stunned soldiers of the Spanish camp. "Etienne said he'll be fine. You'll see him in a minute."

They reached the Musketeer camp, now looking deserted as virtually everyone was across the river. The medic's tent however was bustling as Etienne shouted orders at the two stretcher bearers and Julien, his young assistant. Fouchard peeled off to tie the horses up under the trees then steered d'Artagnan into the tent, leading him without asking towards the bed next to Athos. But d'Artagnan spotted Porthos lying in a cot nearby and detoured to his side, without taking his eyes off the table where Etienne was already working on Athos.

Porthos lay on his back, eyes half open. He'd turned his face towards Athos and flapped a hand vaguely at d'Artagnan when he reached his side. His eyes were dull with pain – and probably pain-relief. His face had been roughly cleaned of blood and the bandage removed from the wound on his forehead, which was now stitched. They'd cut away the remains of his breeches and the thigh wound had been re-bandaged. d'Artagnan propped himself on the edge of the cot and took Porthos' hand, thanking Fouchard for his help.

All eyes were on the table where Athos lay. Etienne had cut away his shirt and was probing in the wound with tweezers, yelling at Julien to get more light. One of the stretcher bearers quickly unlaced one of the tent panels and Etienne grunted his thanks as sunlight flooded in to illuminate the dim interior of the small tent.

Julien looked over to where Fouchard was hovering near Porthos' cot, unwilling to leave d'Artagnan until he'd been helped.

"Hey, Foch, grab a cloth and start cleaning d'Artagnan up will you?"

Fouchard took an involuntary step away from d'Artagnan looking horrified, either at the prospect of getting his hands bloody or just at the thought of touching one of his heroes so intimately.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Julien hurled a cloth at him, which he caught reflexively. "Bowl over there, water in the jug. Get on with it!"

Fouchard looked as if 'getting on with it' was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had a go at dabbing at the wound on d'Artagnan's forearm before having to stop to gulp. d'Artagnan was oblivious, watching Etienne's face as he tutted then asked Julien quietly for a knife to open up the wound in Athos' chest. "How bad is it?" he asked, knowing it was too soon for a proper answer but utterly unable to wait in silence. He'd pushing down the fear for Athos' life ever since seeing the shot hurl his body backwards and send him crashing to the ground amidst the circle of enemy soldiers. Now he needed reassurance, or at least to know the worst.

Etienne muttered something under his breath as he carefully drew the surgeon's knife across the wound. Julien mopped up the fresh upwelling of blood as Etienne used a small clamp in one hand to pull back the flesh while he probed again with the tweezers with his other hand.

d'Artagnan's hands were trembling as he watched, then jumped as Porthos's large hand suddenly squeezed his. "He'll be a'right" he mumbled, indistinctly.

d'Artagnan's eyes shot to Porthos and saw him watching d'Artagnan worriedly. "I thought you were out of it," he said gruffly, his own voice still croaky from all the dust, shouting, and a lot of coughing up of river water.

"He bloody should be, the amount of laudanum I had to give 'im before I could stitch him up!" barked Etienne, who missed nothing. "Your stitches held well, by the way, lad. Shame I had to cut them to open it up so I could clean the wound out properly. Right down to the bone it was, miracle he didn't bleed out. Good job... Julien! Pay attention! Need to clamp that blood vessel... that's it."

A soft exhale drew d'Artagnan's attention back to Porthos for a moment, then he grinned. All the talk of stitches and blood had been enough to send him into a faint, by the looks of it. His eyes had rolled back in his head and his mouth flopped open. d'Artagnan patted him on the hand, settled the big man's head more comfortably on the pillow and gently closed his mouth before he could start snoring.

"A ha!" A triumphant exclamation drew his attention back to Etienne. "Gotcha, you little bugger!" He pulled the tweezers out carefully and dropped a bloody musket ball into the waiting bowl containing his other instruments. "Right, Julien, you okay to clean it ready for stitching?"

Without waiting for an answer he came over to d'Artagnan and took the cloth from Fouchard's hands without comment. The youngster's face was chalk-white and he looked incapable of speech, let alone helping out.

"Fouchard, make yourself useful. Get d'Artagnan some water. d'Artagnan, get yourself over here. Can't treat you sitting on top of Porthos like that. Move!"

d'Artagnan complied meekly, rising stiffly and making his way unsteadily to a spare cot. There were already two other injured Musketeers in the tent, being watched over by the two stretcher bearers, and three empty cots. Etienne followed d'Artagnan, stopping briefly to check on the other patients and send the stretcher bearers back down to Jumot in case of further wounded.

"Right lad, sit back and let's get a proper look at you." Etienne pushed d'Artagnan's shoulders, forcing him to lie down and ignoring his protests. "Athos will still be here when I've finished with you so stop your worrying, lad."

D'Artagnan looked up at him, his dark eyes squinting with tiredness and pain. "You didn't answer at the river when I asked how he was..."

"Well, I'm sorry if I didn't give you a running commentary but he'll be fine providing there's no infection, and you got him here quick enough. Ball took him high in the chest, and there's a lot of tissue damage, but it missed the lungs and most of the major blood vessels. Bloody lucky, he was. Apart from that he's got some cuts as'll need stitching but nothing too deep. Had a good dunking in the river, mind you, so we'll need to watch his lungs stay clear... " As he spoke he was efficiently cutting d'Artagnan out of his clothes and chucking them to the ground, at the same time looking over to Julien to check his progress in cleaning Athos' chest wound.

Fouchard returned with a cup of water which he offered to d'Artagnan, who shook his head. "I've drunk more than enough of the river, thanks."

Etienne tutted. "Haven't you chucked that up yet? Thought for sure you were going to, back at the river."

d'Artagnan shook his head again, and found a small bowl being thrust into his hands.

"Better out than in and unless I knock you out I can guarantee you're going to feel sick by the time I've finished with you," Etienne informed him dispassionately.

d'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment as an image of Aramis popped, uninvited, into his head. Etienne's bedside manner was no comparison for the compassionate, gentle medic he missed so much. But Etienne's hands were surprisingly kind as he checked d'Artagnan's body limb by limb, inch by inch, for injuries, muttering to himself when he found the extent of the bruising on d'Artagnan's ribs and back. When he'd finished he patted d'Artagnan's hand briefly. "You'll live, son," he informed him. "Couple of cracked ribs you should've mentioned last night, there's that ball to dig out of your thigh and you've bled a lot from the slice on your side, but nothing life-threatening." d'Artagnan nodded, eyes still closed. Of course he would live! It was the others he was worried about.

The cot creaked as Etienne stood up. d'Artagnan felt himself being pushed gently back to lean against the pillow, and found he was too tired to do anything but submit. "I'll get Athos' wound closed then I'll do your stitching. Fouchard, there will be more casualties and I'm starving. If you're not too busy," with a note of sarcasm creeping into his voice, "get me something to eat. It's going to be a long morning."

d'Artagnan smiled to himself. Etienne was no Aramis but you always knew where you stood with him. And then a wave of tiredness stole over him, and he remembered nothing else as he finally gave in to exhaustion, and slept.

* * *

 _Once again, thank you so much to those who have reviewed and favourited. It makes my day when you take the trouble to write a couple of words of encouragement - thank you!_


	11. Chapter 11: Just Remember

_I can't believe we're nearly at the end of this tale already - this is the penultimate chapter with an epilogue to round things off. But I have started planning and writing part 2, and humbly hope some of you might be interested in reading it when it's ready. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this one, including the guests I can't reply to directly - I've enjoyed reading your thoughts, especially Debbie's Kodak moment!_

 _I used to be wary of posting reviews, thinking I didn't have anything original to say, but then I realised writers had laboured long over their stories and the least I could do would be to write a couple of words about anything I liked, as a way of saying thank you for entertaining me for a few minutes. So to all of you who read but are nervous about reviewing, please don't be! You don't know how much it encourages writers if you manage to post a few words if you've enjoyed a story, not just to me but to any other writer on here. It's not that we're craving praise (although that is lovely!) but feedback of any kind, just to know people are reading, can really encourage a new writer. Or an old one too, no doubt, although I wouldn't know about that, yet!_

 _Meanwhile, back to the boys to see how they're faring now they're safely back in camp._

 **Chapter 11 Just remember that you're still alive**

 _Musketeer camp at Saltèguet, mid morning_

"Captain? Captain! Where is that bloody man!"

The voice was intrusive, insistent, and far too loud.

"Where is everyone? Friban, get off your bloody horse and find someone. This is intolerable! Bloody place is deserted... Athos! ATHOS!"

d'Artagnan groaned as the strident voice cut through his muddled dreams. A sense of urgency nagged at him. He knew that voice, and it demanded attention. Struggling to rouse himself he started to sit, but stopped immediately as the movement jangled all his battered nerves and cut through the last lethargic blanket of sleep, leaving him gasping in pain, and wide awake but confused. He tried to remember where he was. What was the last thing he remembered? Athos!

His eyes flew open and he winced as brash daylight hammered into his skull. His whole body felt raw and somehow disconnected, a collection of raw nerves held together, precariously, by overstrained muscles and leaden limbs.

The voice was still yelling orders and he sighed, then hauled himself upright and dropped his feet to the ground, succeeding in reaching a more-or-less upright position just as the tent flap was flung noisily aside and the angry voice of General Marche filled the tent.

"Where the bloody hell is your Captain?"

d'Artagnan lifted an unsteady hand to shield his eyes from the light that had followed the General into the tent, and cleared his throat.

"General." His greeting was followed by a bout of coughing that stopped the General in his tracks, an expression of distaste marring his fleshy features as he stared suspiciously at d'Artagnan. With relief, d'Artagnan saw a cup of water next to his cot and grabbed it, spilling half but managing a couple of gulps that soothed his throat enough to speak again. "Sorry, General. Captain Athos is... there." He pointed at the cot next to his, where Athos was lying unnervingly still, his features pale and drawn, the only colour coming from the bruise blossoming under his eye and a thin line of dried blood on his chin where a blade had nicked him.

The General took a step forward before realising Athos was not about to leap up to give a report. There was a momentary pause which d'Artagnan used to look around the tent. Porthos was sleeping soundly just beyond Athos, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. The other cots were all occupied now, and with a jolt he recognised that the figure nearest the entrance was none-other than Lieutenant Jumot. He couldn't tell where or how badly the lieutenant was injured. He also realised there was no one else awake in the tent. Where were Etienne and Julien? Starting to worry, he found the General was speaking again, demanding to know where the other Musketeer officers were.

Wordlessly, d'Artagnan indicated Porthos and Jumot.

"That's preposterous! How can they all be injured... who is in charge here, then?"

Good question, thought d'Artagnan grimly. Carefully, suppressing a small sigh, he shifted the hip that had been propped on his bed and stood up fully, trying not to cry out as his sore ankle took his weight. Clearly his nap hadn't done it much good. How long had he been asleep?

Checking himself out quickly, he realised he was wearing only braes, although the rest of him was mostly covered by a variety of bandages which swept upwards from his waist and around his chest, with more wrapped around his right forearm and ankle, and left wrist. It was with no small sense of surprise that he realised he had slept through everything – wound cleaning, stitching, and bandaging – with, as far as he knew, no pain relief. Clearly sleep deprivation (and perhaps the exhaustion of running however-many-leagues) was vastly under-rated as a method of pain distraction.

Looking up he saw the General was glaring at him, obviously still waiting for an answer.

"Sorry, Sir. I suppose technically that would be Lieutenant Etienne, our medic, but I'm not sure where he..."

d'Artagnan broke off as someone else pushed through the tent flap then stopped dead at the sight of the General pacing around in the centre of the tent, peering at bed-occupants and tutting to himself. With relief, d'Artagnan saw the newcomer was Julien.

"Where is Etienne?" the General demanded of him immediately.

"He's across the river, checking the Spanish wounded, Sir." Julien hesitated then took a visible deep breath and edged politely around the General towards Athos, lifting the sheet covering his chest so he could check the bandage over the wound, and checking his pulse at the same time.

"Right, well I need someone to take me there right away. This is outrageous! That bloody man sends for me in the middle of the night, demands I attend an urgent meeting about Spanish forces gathering at the bridge, then when I get here everyone has bloody well pissed off or ... What Spanish wounded?" he added, belatedly. "You! Do you know what happened?"

d'Artagnan had been distracted by an odd sound coming from Porthos, but found the General pointing imperiously at him and yanked his attention back. Eyeing Porthos' apparently sleeping form suspiciously – the noise had sounded more like a snort than a snore – he gathered his frayed wits and confessed that yes, he did know a bit about recent events.

"Well what are you waiting for then? I haven't got all day, you know!" the General barked, stomping out of the tent again.

d'Artagnan decided there was no point in protesting. Ignoring Julien's objection that d'Artagnan shouldn't be up, let alone walking around, he weaved his way cautiously across the tent, hanging on to cots, tent poles and anything else he could use to stop himself falling flat on his face. He really didn't feel at all steady on his feet.

At the flap he glanced back, wondering again about the odd noise from Porthos. The big man was now snoring quite loudly and d'Artagnan hesitated, eyes narrowing speculatively. Then another shout from the General wiped all other thoughts from his mind and he sighed again. He didn't seem to have a choice.

Outside he saw the General being legged up on to his horse, and his entourage of around ten soldiers mounting hastily. Behind him d'Artagnan spotted Fouchard walking a pair of horses back to the horse lines, and signalled to him to bring one over.

Fouchard looked unsure as he manoeuvred a stallion into place where d'Artagnan stood, hanging on to the door pole of the medic tent for support.

d'Artagnan ignored Fouchard's sideways look and lifted his leg, wincing as the movement pulled on the stitches in the wound on his flank, waiting for the young soldier to give him a leg up.

"d'Artagnan!" Fouchard hissed, urgently. "You shouldn't be riding, or walking for that matter! Etienne will..."

"Is he still across the river?" interrupted d'Artagnan, stifling a hiss of pain as Fouchard, in spite of clear misgivings, hoisted d'Artagnan into the saddle.

"I... yes, he's supervising the loading of the prisoners."

D'Artagnan was too busy gritting his teeth and trying in vain to find a comfortable position in the saddle to respond straight away, but when the General barked the order to move out he grabbed Fouchard's shoulder. "Come with me?" he implored. At least that way if he fell off, there would be someone to pick him up, he thought morosely.

The youngster sighed and mounted the other horse reluctantly as the General and his men wheeled, waiting for d'Artagnan to lead the way.

They moved slowly up the track out of the camp, d'Artagnan deliberately setting a slow pace. He felt distinctly queasy and was pretty sure he would fall off at anything faster than a walk. He squinted at the pathway ahead, the air shimmering in the rising heat of the mid-morning sun, trying to ignore the urgent signals his body was sending him to stop and lie down.

The general rode up alongside him and demanded to know what had been going on.

Hoping he wouldn't throw up as soon as he opened his mouth, d'Artagnan took a shallow breath – anything else would hurt too much – and tried to marshal his thoughts. He knew Athos' message to the General last night had mentioned Porthos and the rescue mission, as well as d'Artagnan's observation of the growing Spanish encampment, so he skipped that part and explained that they'd found Porthos without incident and arrived back at the Spanish side of the river at dawn; that Athos had gone to scout the camp and that he'd been caught between two patrols. He, d'Artagnan, had sent Porthos ahead on the safe route and turned back to help his Captain, but for a reason he didn't yet understand, Porthos had ended up galloping across the camp. This had roused the Spanish but also distracted them, allowing the Musketeers keeping watch on this side of the river the opportunity to get across the bridge, which in turn had kept him and the Captain alive. Athos had been shot and d'Artagnan had brought him back across the river, but after that he didn't know exactly what had happened, other than what Jumot had told him about the Spaniards being in disarray.

Faintly surprised he'd been able to summarise that chaotic hour into so few words, d'Artagnan drew rein at the top of the rise so they could look down on the bridge and the remains of the encampment beyond. The sound of horses whinnying, voices shouting instructions, and equipment being shifted reached their ears languidly above the dust and heat haze hovering over the ruins of the camp. D'Artagnan spotted Etienne supervising the sorting of the Spanish prisoners and pointed him out to the General. The seriously wounded were being loaded into a wagon whilst the rest, hands tied behind their backs, were being placed into sullen rows under close guard. Elsewhere Musketeers were loading weapons and stores onto another couple of wagons, whilst others were carrying the bodies of dead Spaniards to a spot by the river bank where a number of bodies were already laid out.

They watched in silence for a few minutes. The General seemed to have run out of steam, or perhaps he was silenced by the size of the camp and the number of Spaniards. d'Artagnan tried to count them and gave up after sixty. He couldn't believe that fewer than 30 active Musketeers had managed to break across the well-guarded bridge and overwhelm the enemy with so few casualties on their part.

The General cleared his throat and asked where d'Artagnan and Athos had been fighting. d'Artagnan pointed it out, as well as the crossing place below the bridge, and the field cannon, explaining briefly about dampening the gunpowder and stealing the box of fuses during the night. By that time the wagon of injured Spanish was being man-handled across the bridge, and Etienne was stomping ahead of it up to where the General and his men stood watching.

Predictably, his first words were not for the General – in fact he ignored him completely. Instead he came to a halt in front of d'Artagnan, glaring at him. "What the devil do you think you are doing? You are in no condition to be roaring around the countryside on horseback, you idiotic, addle-witted Gascon!"

d'Artagnan resisted the impulse to point out that he hadn't been roaring anywhere, and instead flicked his eyes across to the General, hoping Etienne would realise that he hadn't had much say in the matter. It worked.

"And you? You should know better than to drag this man out of his sick bed. Why didn't you wait for me to get back? Bloody Generals, think the whole world revolves around them... Well now you're here you can make yourself useful. Take that wagon back to your camp with you. I don't have space for them here and they need treatment. You can do what you like with the rest of 'em once they've buried their dead." With that he stomped off towards the Musketeer camp, yelling at d'Artagnan to follow him. "If you've burst any stitches you'll bloody well be doing them yourself this time. I've got better things to do than chase around after hot-heads who think they're invincible..."

D'Artagnan tried to see the General's expression without catching his eye. Looking stunned, the General was staring after Etienne with his mouth slightly open and a deep red flush spreading up his cheeks. Clearly he wasn't used to being spoken to in such a fashion.

Hastily d'Artagnan nudged his mount into a turn, sensing an impending explosion. "Would you like to see anything more, Sir?" he asked politely, noticing Fouchard quickly turning his own mount to keep d'Artagnan between him and the General.

Fortunately at that moment the wagon of wounded reached them and they had to move aside to make way. One of the musketeers accompanying them stopped and asked d'Artagnan if a decision had been made about where to take them. d'Artagnan told him tentatively that they were going back to the main army camp with the General's men, half expecting the General to shout him down, but it seemed words had thoroughly deserted him.

Fouchard nudged closer to d'Artagnan. "You should go back. You're bleeding." He indicated d'Artagnan's hip where blood was starting to seep through his bandages, staining his braes.

d'Artagnan was also aware that his head was reeling and he was desperate for water. "Sir?" he prompted.

The General had finally recovered, and was giving instructions to his second-in-command to escort the Spanish wounded back to the main army camp. Now he turned his attention back to the two young Musketeers.

"I've seen enough. Tell Athos I will see him as soon as he is fit enough to give me a full report." He turned his horse, muttering under his breath about "bloody Musketeers who ask for help then don't bother to wait, dragging me over here for nothing..."

D'Artagnan kept his expression bland as he waited for them to leave, desperate only to return to the prone position which his body craved. However, thinking about his desperate need for sleep made him realise that most of the Musketeer camp would be in the same state as he was, almost everyone having been up all night and involved in the explosive action of the morning. Without giving himself time to chicken out, he called out as the General and his men started after the wagon of wounded prisoners.

"Sir, one moment if you will."

The General raised a hand to halt his men, and turned his horse back to the Musketeers, looking even grumpier than before, if that were possible. "What is it now?" he demanded, as if d'Artagnan had been plaguing him with questions and detaining him for hours already.

"I was wondering... " d'Artagnan trailed off as the General's scowl turned impatient. He didn't know how to phrase this. Putting suggestions to Athos was a breeze compared to this. Oh, just spit it out, he told himself firmly. "We need support from your men, Sir."

Fouchard shot him a startled look as the General frowned. D'Artagnan hurried on. "You've seen that most of our officers are ... recovering from wounds, Sir. And all of our men will need some rest after their efforts this morning. If you could spare some additional men to help us today, we would recover more quickly ..."

Unexpectedly Fouchard joined in at this point, voice trembling at his own temerity in addressing a General. "We also need help to move the unwounded prisoners, Sir... General ...Sir," he vacillated. "Will they be taken to your camp too, Sir?"

Behind the General he noticed several men, all officers more senior than either of the two of them, looking askance at the impudence of the youthful Musketeers in addressing let alone questioning the leader of their joint forces, and his Lieutenant kicked his horse forward as if to challenge them for their lack of propriety. But the General held up a hand to forestall him, eyeing d'Artagnan speculatively. "I see you have balls as well as guts. Very well. I'll leave you half my men, and send more to retrieve the rest of the prisoners. Use them as you wish." And with that he wheeled his horse and set off, waving his men to follow.

The two young Musketeers watched them go in a relieved silence. Then Fouchard nudged his mount forward, looking to make sure d'Artagnan followed. "Was that a compliment?" he asked, in a disbelieving tone.

"What?" d'Artagnan grunted, thinking only of the soft bed awaiting him in the blessed coolness of the medic tent.

"That bit about balls and guts."

d'Artagnan thought back, with an effort, then shrugged. His body was screaming at him to get off the horse and he honestly couldn't care less what the General thought of him, so long as Athos, Porthos and everyone else were safe.

* * *

Back at the tent, Fouchard pulled the flap aside for d'Artagnan to enter, but the Gascon suddenly caught Fouchard by the elbow. "Nuit – did you see to her?" he asked urgently. His battered face was creased in self-reproach for not asking after his beloved mare sooner.

"I've cleaned the wound and covered it from the flies, but it hasn't been stitched yet," Fouchard answered, slightly apologetically. "I was waiting for someone ... " He was going to say braver, but changed it to "... more experienced than I to do it."

d'Artagnan's gaze shot over towards the horse lines and he turned as if to head straight over, but Fouchard grabbed his shoulder.

"No, you must get your wound seen to again. Etienne will kill you if he finds you at the horse lines... and me!" he added, wincing at the thought of all the yelling that would follow.

"But the flies – if the wound is not closed properly it will fester. I'll be quick..." He pulled away and started off, chin lifted in determination, ignoring Fouchard's despairing chuff.

"d'Artagnan, wait! You'll need needle and thread. Let me get it at least."

At d'Artagnan's reluctant nod Fouchard disappeared inside the tent and left the Gascon looking vaguely around for something to lean on while he waited.

A moment later he found himself taken by both elbows and turned firmly around before being frog-marched, gently but relentlessly, into the medic tent by Etienne and Julien. Fouchard hovered to the side, whispering an apologetic "sorry" as they passed him. d'Artagnan tried to glare at him but found he didn't have the energy. He did raise a rather pathetic protest of "I have to see to my horse," as they steered him back to his cot, which both medics ignored in favour of stripping him of his braes again and tutting over the state of the bandage covering the long sword wound curling around his ribs and down his flank.

"Pulled three," commented Julien.

"Idiotic dunderhead." Etienne reached for tweezers to pull out the remnants of his careful stitches.

"I didn't seem to have much choice," explained d'Artagnan, tiredly. He stopped watching what the medics were doing and looked around to check on the others.

To his surprise, every single one of the injured Musketeers was awake – even Athos. At first he was relieved to see his Captain eyeing him through half-lidded eyes, but then his previous passing suspicion returned with full force as he realised the depth of duplicity to which he'd been victim.

"You were awake all the time!" he said accusingly, having no trouble finding the energy to glare. His reproachful gaze fell on Porthos, who was sitting up in bed holding the remains of a bowl of stew and looking for all the world as if he'd been awake for hours. "You snorted," d'Artagnan added, sounding less cross now as Porthos' beaming smile infected his own bad humour.

"Sorry, my friend."

"You could have warned me! Were you all in on it?"

"You were asleep! We heard him coming and looked at each other... we didn't plan it, just all had the same idea to lie low. Athos was still out of it, to be fair, and we thought you were too ... It's no-one's fault but your own, if you're stupid enough to answer him!"

"Stupid, am I now?" d'Artagnan couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or amused at the way he'd obediently fallen into the role of General's guide whilst all the rest feigned sleep.

Before anyone could answer, the tent flap was pushed aside and a sub-lieutenant from General Marche's escort poked his head inside tentatively. "Looking for d'Artagnan?" he enquired.

All heads swivelled curiously towards the young Gascon, who answered "here" with a slightly bemused expression.

"The General said to report to you. Where do you want us?"

d'Artagnan was uncomfortably aware of the surprise in his comrades' gazes at the thought of army troops reporting to d'Artagnan rather than to any of the Musketeer officers in the tent, but he didn't have the energy to explain how this turn of events had come about. Besides which, Etienne was just placing the first replacement stitch in his side and he needed to concentrate on not being sick.

"Er... how many ..." He had to pause to stifle a hiss of pain, then hurried on, swallowing: "How many men do you have?"

"Five, and we're sending for more to escort the rest of the prisoners to our headquarters. Do you need help in here?"

Etienne paused in his ministrations and glanced up speculatively. "If you have someone with medical training, I'd appreciate it." Julien looked at him, slightly surprised, but Etienne said quietly: "then you will be free to tend to d'Artagnan's mount, since he frets so much about it." He ignored d'Artagnan's grateful look and went back to his stitching.

The army lieutenant called to one of his men then turned back to d'Artagnan, who'd gathered his wits by now.

"If our men are still clearing up across the river ...?" At the officer's nod, he carried on: "In that case, perhaps you could check their progress and help where necessary? All our officers are in here, either wounded or caring for the wounded. And once our men are back in camp they will need to wash, eat and rest so if some of your men could help prepare water and food, we'd appreciate it." d'Artagnan's tone was respectful – he couldn't issue orders to a higher-ranking soldier, only offer suggestions – but he hoped he'd managed to sound professional rather than pathetically grateful.

The lieutenant looked sharply around the tent at the news that all their officers were here, but nodded his agreement as d'Artagnan finished, and went back out, holding the flap open for his medic who entered at the same time. Etienne set him to checking on the other men, watching him closely until he could be sure of the man's skill, while Julien gathered strong thread and the largest needle, then disappeared with Fouchard to tend to Nuit.

With a relieved sigh, d'Artagnan relaxed back onto the cot and let Etienne mutter away over his stitching. Outside he could hear the sound of Musketeers returning to camp and orders shouted by the army officer to his men to fetch water and stoke the fires. Julien would do a better job on Nuit than he ever could. Inside the tent, all wounds were dressed; Athos was conscious, if not talking; Porthos was eating; and Etienne was grumpy: all was right with the world.


	12. Chapter 12: Epilogue

_Thank you so much for the reviews - I love hearing what you've each enjoyed! Most of you seem to like grouchy Etienne (I'm getting rather fond of him myself; I can't think they didn't have him in the series!) and Fouchard's eagerness to do the right thing, combined with a bad case of hero worship. The General was supposed to be as vile as those we got a glimpse of in Episode 3.1 but I think the Musketeers are rubbing off on him and, as d'Artagnan discovered, he's not so bad if you stand up to him. I'm glad you like how I've portrayed d'Artagnan; I wanted to explore how he changed during the war and grew in confidence. (At Debbie: I hadn't realised I'd pinched a line from Our Girl 2, but thanks for giving me an excuse to watch it again!)_

 _I have absolutely loved writing this story and am so happy to have been able to share it with you all. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Epilogue**

When he awoke again, the light was dim and he lay quietly for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of a camp on standby. Horses stamping, men talking around the fire, pots being washed out near the mess tent, weapons being checked and cleaned, wood being chopped... He started to stretch then remembered why that was a bad idea. His soft groan was met with a swift rustle from behind his head, then Porthos' rumbling voice.

"You awake, then, pup?"

Looking across at Porthos, d'Artagnan took in his surroundings for the first time. Instead of the medic's tent, he was lying in his own bed in the tent he shared with Porthos.

Chuckling at d'Artagnan's look of confusion, Porthos swung his injured leg carefully to the ground and reached for a water bottle, leaning over to hand it to his young tent-mate. "Etienne got fed up with all of us makin' 'is tent look untidy and 'ad us moved out. It's only Athos and Jumot still there, and Jumot's likely to get kicked out soon; 'e's only concussed apart from a wound on 'is sword arm they're keeping an eye on. Athos is doing well but 'e'll be there longer an' Etienne wanted 'im kept quiet so 'e could sleep."

d'Artagnan's brow crinkled as he processed this. "Moved us... how? When?"

"Yeah, didn't think you'd remember. You were three-quarters asleep, if that's possible. Proper sleep-walking, you were, even if you did 'ave a man either side steering you."

"What time is it, then?" d'Artagnan was struggling to catch up; he still felt exhausted and it felt like only minutes since he'd returned to the medic's tent after the General's visit.

"About 8 o'clock."

"Eight... in the morning?" _Sacre bleu_ , he'd slept for...

"Twenty hours, give or take," Porthos kindly informed him as if he'd spoken his thought aloud. "Hey, you must be hungry. I'll get you something."

"Hey, no, Porthos! You shouldn't walk on that leg. Besides, I'm not hungry." It was true: he still felt a vaguely sick, and only half awake.

Porthos flapped a hand dismissively. "Course you are. All that charging around yesterday ..." He took the water bottle from d'Artagnan's hand and replaced it with a cup containing some murky-looking liquid.

d'Artagnan sniffed it, suspiciously.

"It's alright, it's just ginger and chamomile, apparently. Julien thought your stomach might be a bit unsettled. O'course it'll be cold by now..." He pursed his lips and whistled, piercingly. A moment later Fouchard poked his head enquiringly around the tent flap, grinning when he saw d'Artagnan was awake.

"Morning, sleepy-head!" he said, cheekily. "How are you feeling?"

d'Artagnan took a cautious sip of the tea and found it tasted just as awful as he'd expected. "I'm fine," he answered, predictably.

Porthos scoffed but let it go. In truth the Gascon looked pretty grim: dark hollows under his eyes, stitches in the bruised skin on his cheek and chin, and bandages on virtually every visible bit of his body. But he was awake, and more or less whole, and that was all that mattered.

"Fouchard, tell Etienne he's awake, would you? And see if Gaspard has any more of that broth for 'im. Thanks."

Fouchard disappeared, then popped his head straight back in. "Nuit's doing fine, d'Artagnan," he reported. "She's rested, the wound is clean and the stitches holding, and she's eaten a good breakfast."

d'Artagnan nodded his heartfelt thanks to the young Musketeer for checking on her, then sagged back into his pillows with a sigh of relief.

"Hey, don't you go back to sleep before you've eaten!" chided Porthos. "Besides, I've got something to say."

d'Artagnan rolled an eye open again, reluctantly.

There was a small silence, during which d'Artagnan struggled to keep his eyelids from drooping. Then Porthos spoke again, gruffly.

"I owe you my life, d'Artagnan. Wanted to say thanks."

d'Artagnan snapped properly awake and looked over at Porthos, who was still sitting on the side of his bed, looking slightly embarrassed. He twitched a smile at his burly friend, wincing only slightly as the movement pulled at the crack on his lower lip. "You're welcome."

"No, really, I..."

"There's no need to thank me, you idiot. It's just what we do!" d'Artagnan interrupted, to save both their blushes.

"No, lad." Porthos was firm now. "It was a lot more than that. What you did – running through the night, and wounded too even if you were too daft to realise it... Etienne reckons your ankle bone is cracked as well as the musket wound. And all that way... I couldn't 'ave done it, injured or not."

d'Artagnan judged it safe to interrupt. "The bone is whole. I've broken an ankle before and I know the difference. And of course you would have done the same for me. You do yourself an injustice if you - "

Porthos clearly wasn't finished. "I would 'ave, course I would – or rather I would've tried. But I couldn't 'ave run that distance so fast. It was my luck that I was relying on you – our quickest Musketeer!"

d'Artagnan was starting to get embarrassed now and anxious to end this uncomfortable discussion. "Like I said, you are welcome."

"You don't get it, do you?" Porthos sounded almost cross now. "I was scared, that night, and don't mind admittin' it, thinking what I'd do if you couldn't get help back to me in time. But then I kept remember who it was I was relyin' on, and I realised I 'ad nothing to worry about. I knew you wouldn't let me die there, on my own."

Porthos' voice was husky now and d'Artagnan looked away, but not before he'd seen the emotion welling in Porthos' eyes. He felt supremely uncomfortable, but sensed Porthos' deep need to speak. It wasn't like him to dwell on things and usually any deep sentiment was quickly laughed off, but when he spoke like this, d'Artagnan listened, no matter how hard it was to receive praise.

"Thing I'm trying to say, young 'un, is that if I had to be there, on that infernal mountainside, there's no one I'd rather rely on than you, and I can't tell you how much that means ... " Porthos' voice finally cracked, and d'Artagnan couldn't help his own throat constricting as he reached over to pat one of Porthos' hands where it rested on his knee.

"I'm just glad we got you safely back, Porthos. It's what brothers do."

* * *

It was another 24 hours before Etienne allowed the pair of them to leave their tent. They'd rested and eaten, and entertained a stream of visitors wanting to hear details of the night-time run, Porthos' ride across camp, d'Artagnan's spiking of the cannons, and the fight to protect Athos. They'd heard all about the parts of the battle they'd missed: Moutierre falling over his own feet as ten men crept across the bridge, the others having to jump over him to rush the Spanish guard; Limoge's incredible musket shot at a Spaniard who was leaping to pull Porthos from his horse on his return gallop through the camp. And of course there were plenty of tales of mighty sword fights – all of which predictably grew in intensity and outcome every time they were repeated.

Porthos had explained why he'd gone across the camp instead of across the river - "turn left and then wait at the river" sounding much like "turn left at the river" when you're light-headed from blood loss. d'Artagnan had down-played his battle to protect Athos, but in vain: too many eyes had watched the desperate fighting on the hilltop and all knew just how many men d'Artagnan had downed.

"Ten men, d'Artagnan! Ten men!" Fouchard kept repeating. d'Artagnan had explained, _several_ times, that Athos had been there too, and in any case it was only eight - as one had been shot by his own countryman, and d'Artagnan had spotted the shooter amongst the prisoners when escorting the General to the battle-scene - but to no avail.

Eventually Etienne appeared to check on their recovery and kicked everyone out so they could rest. They both slept deeply, still recovering from the stresses of that night which now felt dreamlike in their memories.

The following morning Fouchard turned up with two pairs of crutches, roughly fashioned from strong hazel branches with the forked tops wrapped in sacking to cushion them. d'Artagnan had more trouble with the crutches than Porthos, being only able to use one because of his wrist, which was still swollen and unwilling to bend, but they made it across to the medic tent without incident. (Well, almost without incident: d'Artagnan had almost toppled into a water butt when he lost his balance but Porthos had caught him by the collar in time to straighten him. It had only taken them two minutes to stop laughing.)

Feeling ridiculously tired from the effort of walking, but much better for all the laughing and horsing around as they got used to the crutches, and lightened by the catcalls and fond jeers from their fellow Musketeers as they wobbled across the grass, they both piled through the tent flap at the same time in their eagerness to see Athos.

Inside, they found him sitting up and looking a lot better than when they'd last seen him. His chest wound was now covered in a smaller bandage; one arm was still bandaged but the cut on his left forearm was uncovered and the stitches had already been removed, and the bruise under his eye had faded a little. He was reading from a small pile of parchments, but looked up with a ready smile when they entered.

"Good to see you up," he greeted them, waving at them to sit on the adjoining cot and, with only a small grimace as the movement pulled on his back, reached for the wine bottle that – predictably – sat beside his bed. Not bothering with cups he simply offered the bottle to each of them, giving d'Artagnan a sharp look when he declined.

"I've only just woken up," d'Artagnan excused himself before Athos could start worrying. Porthos, who was already feeling more rested, had no compunction about accepting the bottle.

"What are we drinkin' to?" he asked, pausing with the bottle almost to his lips.

Athos looked at them both with a small smile. "How about, to brotherhood?"

Porthos hesitated. "That's... the thing is that don't feel quite right with, you know..." he trailed off, looking slightly miserable.

d'Artagnan answered after a moment. "He's not here – but it doesn't mean we can't drink to him. He's still part of us – always will be."

"That's as may be, but 'e wasn't here was 'e? It was you that got me out of there, an' kept Athos safe, an' took those fuses so the lads didn't get hammered by the cannon, an' – "

d'Artagnan interrupted. "That was a mistake."

Porthos and Athos both looked at him, eyebrows raised in unison.

d'Artagnan blinked, realising what he'd said. "No! I don't mean a mistake doing it... I mean, I didn't plan it. It was just luck that I happened to grab that crate."

Athos looked thoughtful as Porthos began to chuckle. "Pup won't have this 'ero worship stuff, will 'e?" he said in a stage whisper to Athos.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Porthos!" said d'Artagnan, exasperated. "I just don't like taking credit for things that were an accident, that's all!"

"Weren't an accident you were there though, was it? You 'ad the guts to stroll into their camp and look for a way to spike their cannon, didn't ya?"

"But that's not what happened! I went that way to avoid a patrol, and I only thought about the cannon when I was hiding beside them..."

Apparently apropos of nothing, and cutting across the argument, Athos suddenly said quietly: "You make your own luck in this life."

The other two both fell silent and turned to him, then looked at each other.

"What?" They spoke in unison.

"Luck," repeated Athos. He looked at d'Artagnan. "It seems to me that you had a great deal of luck that night."

d'Artagnan nodded slowly, remembering that he'd thought, several times during the run, that luck was on his side. "It's true. I still can't believe that patrol didn't catch me in Lillet. What are the chances of falling into the yard of a man whose son was the same age as me, and in the Spanish army..." His hand strayed to his neck, where the wooden cross should have been hanging, and then he sighed and dropped his hand. When he looked up, Athos was watching him sympathetically, so he gave a rueful smile and shrugged.

"And before that, you got away from the patrol when you'd just left me." Porthos shivered, remembering the distant sounds of that skirmish, sitting in his cave listening to the sounds of musket shots and knowing they had to be aimed at d'Artagnan.

" _Mon Dieu_ , yes, when I ended up in the stream and looked up to find a Spanish commander pointing at me, or so I thought..."

Porthos looked at him. "I didn't know about that?"

d'Artagnan shrugged carefully, mindful of the grazes on his back from his two slides down the ravine, which were still healing. "I fetched up against a boulder with the moon behind me. I think he just couldn't see me in the shadow, but I can tell you at the time I was ... " He puffed out his cheeks, trying to think of a nice way of expressing just how scared he'd been at that moment. Porthos squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

"And the fall down the ravine, when your horse was shot. It was a miracle you weren't more badly injured." Athos still couldn't believe how far down he'd slid.

"Mmn."

"And in the Spanish camp? You must have 'ad the luck of the devil, walking around in full view of the campfire and the patrol that followed you in..." Porthos had enjoyed this part of d'Artagnan's adventures most, loving the idea of a Frenchman spiking the Spanish cannon right under their noses.

"I so nearly got caught." d'Artagnan's eyes were dark as he remembered walking straight into the man emerging from his tent.

"I haven't heard that part," prompted Athos, his calm eyes assessing him astutely, picking up on d'Artagnan's change of expression at the talk of his escape from the camp.

"I ran straight into an officer coming out of his tent. Had to kill him," explained d'Artagnan reluctantly. He had hated doing it; it hadn't felt at all the same as killing someone who is trying to kill you. He sighed again and pushed the memory away: if he hadn't done it, Porthos would still be lying in the cave near Aranyonet and Athos would most likely be mourning the loss of both of them. To say nothing of the fate of the rest of the Musketeers, if they'd been taken unaware by a Spanish attack in the morning, cannon or no cannon.

Suddenly aware of a silence in the room he looked up, to find both Porthos and Athos staring at him.

"You killed an officer?" Athos' voice was sharp.

"Ye – es," said d'Artagnan slowly. Had he broken some unwritten law by killing an officer out of combat?

Porthos started laughing. "I should've guessed that was you as well," he chuckled appreciatively.

d'Artagnan stared at him. "What do you mean?" He looked back at Athos, relieved to see a small smile playing at his Captain's lips.

"Apparently," drawled Athos with satisfaction, "the prisoners were full of talk of losing their commanding officer, but no one was clear about how or when he'd been killed. It seemed to be why they were in such chaos when we 'attacked' the camp at dawn."

"Even though our 'attack' was just Athos scouting, d'Artagnan trying to rescue him and me going the wrong way at the river." Porthos was positively chortling now.

"Ah yes, that reminds me. d'Artagnan, I have to deal with the matter of you disobeying my direct order that morning."

d'Artagnan looked down. "I'm sorry Athos. I know you'd told me to get Porthos across the river but I couldn't leave you there when I saw the other patrol approaching. I know it was..."

Athos interrupted him, his words overlapping d'Artagnan's. "It was foolhardy and impulsive, all things that will get you killed at the front. I don't expect to be disobeyed again: orders are orders, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan felt awful. No matter his justification – that he had saved Athos' life by disobeying him – it was still potentially a court-martial offense. More than that, he hated the idea of Athos being disappointed in him. Gritting his teeth he lifted his head to apologise again, only to be forestalled by Athos' raised hand. Startled, he saw that smile playing around Athos' lips again.

"Your punishment, d'Artagnan, is to be confined to your quarters for two days..."

d'Artagnan let out a breath. That was pretty lenient: he could conceivably have been stripped of his commission and dishonourably discharged. His relief was such that he almost missed the rest of Athos' pronouncement.

"...from the time of the offence."

There was another silence while d'Artagnan worked it out. "But that's... that was..."

Porthos laughed again, the deep, comforting belly-laugh that d'Artagnan loved because it meant everything was going to be alright.

"Sums not your strong point, lad?" he teased. d'Artagnan looked from one to the other, and started to laugh himself.

"So, now you've served your punishment, you'd better go and see your biggest fan." Athos' lips were twitching again.

Honestly, the man was recovering from a serious chest wound, he had no business being this... devious, let alone cheerful, thought d'Artagnan, wishing he knew why Porthos was chuckling again.

"Who might that be?" he enquired, cautiously.

"The General, of course! He's been asking after you daily. Apparently he's so impressed with you that he's asked me to transfer you to his regiment," Athos answered, conversationally.

"WHAT?" d'Artagnan's voice rose in horror. "Are you serious? You can't be... you're not going to ... Can he even do that?"

Porthos was wiping tears from his eyes now and d'Artagnan spared a moment to glare at him before turning back to Athos, beseeching him silently.

"Probably not," said Athos, sounding almost disappointed.

d'Artagnan sagged in relief, then glowered at Athos who was enjoying this conversation far too much for his liking. "Athos!" he reproached him.

Athos raised an impassive eyebrow.

"Oh, stop teasing him man!" Porthos had got himself under control now and was starting to feel sorry for the lad. "We're not letting' you go anywhere. Who would do all our heroic rescues then?"

"Well that's good. They don't even have horses in the regular army!" d'Artagnan kept his tone light, and was rewarded with an explosive chuff from Porthos, wounded at the notion of this being d'Artagnan's only regret if transferred from the Musketeers.

Athos scooped up some goblets from the table and waved one suggestively towards d'Artagnan, who took it this time, deciding he didn't care how early it was, he needed a drink after this conversation.

"So what are we drinking to, then?" asked Porthos, grabbing the bottle and filling the goblets.

"To the Musketeers," suggested d'Artagnan.

"To my rescuer." Porthos nudged d'Artagnan who shoved him away, looking embarrassed.

Before Porthos could come up with something worse, d'Artagnan suggested quickly, "How about to luck?" and raised his goblet expectantly.

"To Luck!" Porthos repeated, and added: "May she continue to shine on us all!"

Athos felt an unexpected shiver at Porthos' words. He believed that you make your own luck in this world, and d'Artagnan had survived by skill, quick wit and courage as much as anything. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of being hostage to Fate for their future luck. But he drank with them, and added his own silent vow to do everything he could not to rely on Luck, Fate, God or anything else, but instead to keep them safe by his own efforts.

The solemn moment was broken as the tent flap was pushed aside and the General's Lieutenant poked his head in.

"Ah, there you are, d'Artagnan. The General is here to see you."

"Oh... No, I'm not here – I mean, I shouldn't be ... I'm confined to my tent!" he stuttered, desperately looking to Athos for help.

But Athos was apparently suddenly worn out by the conversation and was lying back on his bed, eyes closed.

"Athos?" asked d'Artagnan, anxiously.

Athos responded with a soft snore, echoed by a louder one from Porthos who had also suddenly fallen asleep, even sitting upright holding a wine goblet.

d'Artagnan scowled at the pair of them then looked back at the Lieutenant who was grinning sympathetically. "Best to get it over with, lad," he advised, standing back and holding the flap open expectantly. "He only wants to congratulate you on your efforts."

And try to recruit me, added d'Artagnan silently. Let's hope he's not too offended when I turn him down. With an enormous sigh, he hauled himself to his feet and headed for the doorway. "I shan't forget this!" he hissed at both of them in passing.

As he emerged from the tent, he was sure he heard an explosive snort from Porthos. Rubbing his face he suppressed a fond smile as he squared his shoulders and walked across to where the General was waiting for him.

* * *

 _A final thank you to you for reading. I write to get the stories out of my head, but the knowledge that someone else will read and hopefully enjoy the story is what makes me go back and refine it, and many times the story grows because of comments in reviews._

 _I have always been in awe of the men and women who put their lives on the line for us, be it in the armed forces or at home in the police, fire or rescue services. It's so easy to take them for granted, but as a teenager I read a lot of war poetry and letters from the front, trying to work out how they found the courage to go out there, day after day, knowing it could be their last. I guess the answer is the one we come to so often in the Musketeers: they do it for each other._

 _This story was a relatively light-hearted dip into the war period for our Musketeers, to see if I could handle the setting (about which I know so little, and for which I apologise if anything jarred too much). I am now working on a follow-up story to this one which will explore some of the darker aspects of war; and, without breaking with canon, Aramis will have a part to play._

 _Meanwhile here are the words of the song that inspired the title and the chapter headings. I would encourage you to listen to it (look for "Musketeers Battlescars" on Youtube). Thanks again to BraveMusketeer97, and Paradise Fears, for the inspiration!_

 **Battlescars – Paradise Fears**

This is an anthem for the homesick, for the beaten,  
The lost, the broke, the defeated.  
A song for the heartsick, for the standbys,  
Living life in the shadow of a goodbye.

Do you remember when we learned how to fly?  
We'd play make-believe; we were young and had time on our side.  
You're stuck on the ground,  
Got lost, can't be found.  
Just remember that you're still alive.

I'll carry you home.  
No, you're not alone.  
Keep marching on,  
This is worth fighting for,  
You know we've all got battle scars.  
You've had enough

But just don't give up.  
Stick to your guns,  
You are worth fighting for.  
You know we've all got battle scars.  
Keep marching on.

This is a call to the soldiers, the fighters,  
The young, the innocent, and righteous.  
We've got a little room to grow.  
Better days are near,  
Hope is so much stronger than fear.

So if you jump, kid, don't be scared to fall.  
We'll be kings and queens in this dream, all for one, one for all.  
You can light up the dark,  
There's a fire in your heart,  
Burning brighter than ever before.

I'll carry you home.  
No, you're not alone.  
Keep marching on,  
This is worth fighting for, You know we've all got battle scars.  
You've had enough,  
But just don't give up.  
Stick to your guns,  
You are worth fighting for.  
You know we've all got battle scars.  
Keep marching on.

On and on, like we're living on a broken record.  
Hope is strong, but misery's a little quicker.  
Sit, and we wait, and we drown there,  
Thinking, "Why bother playing when it's unfair?"  
They say life's a waste, I say they lack belief.  
They tell me luck will travel, I tell 'em that's why I've got feet.  
Left, right, left, right,  
Moving along to the pulse of a heartbeat.  
This could be the last chance you have to fly.  
Do you like the ground? Want it to pass you by?  
Man, you had it all when you were just a kid.  
Do you even remember who you were back then?  
What do you want in life? Will you be twice as strong?  
What would you sacrifice? What are you waiting on?  
Don't stop, march on.

I'll carry you home.  
No, you're not alone. Keep marching on,  
This is worth fighting for,  
You know we've all got battle scars.  
You've had enough,  
But just don't give up.  
Stick to your guns,  
You are worth fighting for.  
You know we've all got battle scars.  
Keep marching on.


End file.
